With buoyant impression.
Another change in the night…that falls.
As if, my running through intrepid waters could oppose a stall.
As if, my stumble, minus, a sideways glance could impede…
‘every season, I cannot recall.’
With luxury, near, close at hand.
A chill slaps a splash toward my heavy load.
In the still air…
Time has grown old.
Oh, to relish life…
Less having to be bold.
I fathom the flames.
Until, they rise no more.
How far the reaches of season?
Until they succumb to folklore.