At first light, the old varlet is abducted
by a reoccuring childhood daydream...
...reunited with concerns of spring,
forced to witness the boy,
withering before the blooms, envious and green,
though his budding resentment sent a bark up the right tree,
branching away from those bequeathed roots,
that may never grasp the world...
...was blinding hatred...
...for the mid-morning classics to uncover,
easy in his chair,
behind those supressed qualms with teenage summer,
when he was yellow under the sun,
sweating the fireworks,
where true colors always owned the night...
...that the early evening news recalls,
restraining fears of the fall,
absent detour orange, to warn,
the journeyman towards the deep brown ominous gorge,
where some left bone grey ashes to the wind,
in the name of blinding hatred...
...leaving only late night struggles to remember,
his one of many misgivings of winter,
the stories of his life, waiting to be unhung,
the search for silver linings never ends,
though golden opportunities have bitten him blue,
like drifting regrets,
that strand him in silence,
his existence is now that of falling snow,
destined to be forgotten,
though the stubborn old varlet must trudge forward,
as if it's something,
to be cold until you're frozen stiff-