Come and go with previous notice. Like the leaves from apple green meander to brown in Autumn. As the leaves begin to arid off and cast along to the ground, the frigid gust of this month blows the anesthetized crumbled pieces of me that still wonders along.
Cold as the snow, Winter comes and I already know; while I hibernate awaiting the warmness of your soul. You creep away like the end of Summer - then return like every other. Spring is here; you can see the flowers blossoming, but what difference does it make if this whole thing is not improving? Come and go like Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall. How come I see myself still hanging on?
