The Past sets as the winter withers.
Slowly and painfully the leaves succumb
To the deceit of peace the rain portrays.
The dome is but a gloom, the sun escapes
The dreary heartland of mourning foliage.
Herein lies the deeds of men forgotten
Like Time which hast passed its prime.

The Present strides like grace become.
Audacious and simple the squirrels frolic
To the betrayal of light tantalizingly encompassed.
The winter isn’t dead; the lost hills beckon
The pacified sphere to which they belong.
Herein lies the mortification of men tested
Like Time living its futility.

The Future stalks like infinitely surreptitious.
Fear it faces lest mortals dutifully rebuke
The promise of glory it may never foretell.
The pastures anew for winter’s belching
Of it’s last curse of creepy rain.
Herein lies the hopes of generations
Will Time withstand winter’s strain?