Perdition.

As Winter was exiled, so was I,
Spring came strong like the feeling of unrequited Love,
driving me into the cosy clutches of my room, I hide,
from the suffocating warmth and care of the Sun above

Waves of inelegant darkness colour my pensive face,
as looking out through clear windows I see the World rejoice,
Shall refuse, not by decree nor by force,
Be recluse, for its the poet's own choice

What goodness lies in lying spring?

I hide my scars from the gaze of onlookers
who hide me from their conscious, their eyelids closed.
I wash my sins in the rain of moral degradation
as did every man who wrongfully chose

Spring is pompous, loud, but forgiving
akin to the hordes to whom it pays pleasure...
it rewards sinners and winners alike giving
credence to their ill gotten treasure

Come not to me with your stories Lord,
of the green pastures, the painted flowers, the blooming corn..
the Joy of Spring is but a charade of discord
hidden by the innocent cry of the new born

I will refrain from the rejoicing,
until I see Spring once again be an arm of passion,
accuse and point the Sun's finger voicing
our evil done with scarce compassion

Till then,
speak not to me of Spring's caress,
for I am mute until I pay for my sins.

Of Peter Pan, Rainbows and Spring bread...

Ever chanced to see a rainbow in Spring?
They say a rainbow is vilification
of laughter and love,
of your birth and mine,
its justification

Beneath its semi-circled hue lies red to blue
the Earth itself is painted vignette
from Lord's leaky palette

With the farthest colour He paints sky and saline,
and Sunset he paints with red wine...
With yellow Sun He bakes ripe
into what the harmonious Green breathed life

On afternoons lazy, the children crazy with glee
playing hide-seek 'neath the clouds meek that flee
running as hard across the sky as the young
as far as the wind has them flung

Moon arrives soon complimenting the North star
which from afar seems a twinkling eye
that peeks from the violet sky
watching the World walk home from above
clutching in their hands fingers of true love
to a home baked warm like bread
to tuck their little dividends to bed

I believe not in fairy tales but we are all Peter Pan
and 'tis seasonal Spring that wakes me,
makes me a younger man....