Once so grand, oh how you stifle,
like summer into autumn, you leave a non-resurrecting form of matter,
as winter comes (all thanks) it will be strewn.
To assassinate one's character brings the folly to bloom,
getting through winter on the whiskers of a left over fleeting,
not like a minute, more like a second,
when everything you ever thought stops.
How meanings change, some things just don't stay the same.
In with spring,
you marvel at the wonderment of how new life can make you forget,
you let the dark out, the light comes in,
but you didn't know you were stuck in night,
until you got bored of the star light,
something so bright.
Now you can see the light of dusk,
the thoughts of autumn have water,
bringing you to the depth of understanding.
Summer comes you acquiesce,
but the waters so high it gives you fear,
fear to say no running back there.
Weary child seeing world again and again,
strange, every meeting is strange, like a pain,
someone reminds her of someone,
and why do they all sit that way?
She sits across her chair,
this, an important meeting, yet she won't meet face to face.
She will save her grace for special place,
inside where she pieces her mind back together,
like a rose that has fallen and needs its petals,
just that little bit longer.
She feels a petal moving away and she would offer one
if only they weren't all so strange.
Poems ©MaryJane Thomson 2014