The bloom is around the corner. But where? The frost must've bitten it to dust. The brown hasn't given way to green. But why? The ghost of winter must continue to haunt it.
The dawn shan't feel this cold, And the dusk mustn't feel this crisp. The brawn of the conventional wisdom lies exposed, And the husk mustn't feel this taut.
Every year, every month, and every week, Every day, every hour, and every minute. The ghastly cycles of these seasonal changes, Do only bring upon vertigo to the weak.
The sensible and the sensitive churn through in pain, While the vile human disregard does the damage. This ain't how spring arrives my fellow species, This is exactly how a vernal diarrhea flushes in!
March 21 is World Poetry Day as declared by the UN. So here is a poem.
To be precise, that’s just an excuse to write a poem after a long time.