Lonely Spring

It is spring, but I am lonely all over again,
Not even the bird’s chirping can faze my lugubrious mind.
And all the flowers bloom for Algernon.

Ah! How time advances with its nagging agenda,
Whether or not we are pleased by its fruits.
Seasons burst over each other in desperate hastiness,
Burying yesterday’s withered victory.

Liveliness is an irksome noise that racks my thickened skull,
And hardens my anger against the smiling sun.
The trees will soon conspire to hold hands,
And youths will be seen professing love between their boughs.

Love, that folly that never boasts,
It is like a branch that is said to never break.
Its ridiculous attire already bleeds for attention.
And no one can convince it otherwise.

Love, with its droopy, shameless brow,
Lures those with aimless inklings.
It fills baskets full of bounty, and provides a seemingly tranquilizing innocence,
For mutts to fornicate in its name.

I remember watching to see if she’d kiss him,
Almost dizzy with vicarious lust.
She played and pulled him hither and yonder,
Never did they think it could last long,
Yet even sooner did it end.

The winds blow over the lovers locks,
Bedewed with virgin tear.
Cast as an afterthought to willful indulgence,
On a precariously delicate spark.

Breathing heavily over burden,
Through the passionate letters,
The breeze mauls the obsolete artifact
That lies for the author’s heart.
@Copyright 2005 SirBarrett