I bite my vicious tongue with no delight
Each time I chance to read your wicked lies
Disguised in fields of flowers or in wet
Device of cinnamon or Summer showers.
The stumbling steps you take across a heart,
that you might steep your pen in us again,
does remind me ‘three seasons come and go’
until Winter keeps all love in the end.
But you go on and harvest what you will
Take every bud you find in Spring and Fall.
You are an empty coffin friend, no more.