Cherry blossom petals torn from the tree,
One epidermis shed in preparation for another,
Stripped bare by cold, remorseless winds;
This Spring made Winter in a mixed up morning.
I see it all through watering eyes, alone,
The sleek grass topped by sleet – a poor man’s dew –
Grapples at my shoes, pulling me back,
Or, perhaps, relentlessly pushing me away:
I no longer notice the details I once savoured.
My mouth is dry, tongue hanging lifeless, limp,
An overactive imagination shattered by simple truth;
Like the seasons, I have been found wanting
Without ever realising I was ever being judged.