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.

How far?

I fathom the flames.

Until, they rise no more.

How far the reaches of season?

Until they succumb to folklore.

 

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