This poem is about seasons, and I've made them as tragic as possible. There is a certain beauty in suffering, and that beauty is the words you use to describe it.
There used to be a garden
Spring rolled off a cliff
I breathed in the air, standing stiff
Summer had an axe in her hand
it wasn't as she'd planned
She was going to arrive with flowers in her arms
but spring, with her disappearance, had left behind scars
Summer tried to recover, but how can an addict find release
she took the axe and cut down the trees
with the raging storms that rose before the fall
she swung her toy, destroying it all
And when autumn opened the door
there were leaves and drops of berry juice on the floor
she closed her eyes and stepped over her dear summer
growing silently number and number
In desperation, winter froze it all,
for she couldn't let go of, instead built a wall
a fortress around her dead and dying friend
but they'd meet each other after the end.
