How many more seasons can I take?
Between each lies the hell that change can make.

When I think of peaceful times,
Tears smell of rotten limes.

The officers who arrest me on the street
Have all fallen for lack of feet.

The wellness felt a moment ago,
A plant that stubbornly refuses to grow.

It is the turning of the years
I cannot face it through my deepest fears.

The illness of loosening cold
When fogs begin to fold.

With these fading lines across the page
I surrender fully to the rage.

With these liminal lines across my face
I vanish into the human race.