March...

March… I miss you. But as time does, it marched on. And as I have learnt wading though marsh, saturated in sadness, slicked with self loathing sequestered in some secret spot in my mind, time doesn’t slow for anything; mourning in the wake of time; how many mornings will I give? Fleck of fire leaves fell as fall flung itself to the ground. And as March died, from the refuse rose April, autem blooming. In the cooling autem sun you froze over, gave me a cold shoulder, my wind rose emitting ice blows. And as April befell to the test of time, I sit and wander, rhyme my past-time, to pass time without you there. You teased my skin with your touch, plucked and played my heart like a harp. You were a poison; a crutch. Malevolent as you were machiavellian, cold as a burning winter star, you caught my heart ablaze and cast out my soul afar.