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.
Beyond Panic 