The Train of Seasons

The train of seasons goes express

when you get older.

You live through the day,

and maybe make a memory.

 

The leaves turn to snow,

the snow to buds,

the buds to blossoms,

the blossoms to leaves.

 

It is a slowly descending vortex at first,

but it speeds up as it funnels into a

narrowing, whirling free fall

the closer you get to

the end.

 

Its arrival is deceitful.

You think it is a rescuer,

but your grasping hand

is pried from the ledge

and

you

fall.

 

Your scream is a song.

Your death an exclamation point

on bad lyrics,

the notes of your life

a fading echo heard

from a distant hill.

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