Ides

And so the Autumn wind has come to an end,

the gems of Winter have ceased to glow,

but in the face of bloom may I wend,

for it is Spring that always strikes the blow.

Among the buds of newfound life,

are countless hidden daggers

and each and every blow of the knife

leads to one more bloody stagger.

Defeat, disappoint, and setback,

one and again, one and once more;

I see paintings of fern and flower crack,

just one more hole in my heart to bore.

Begging I do ask,

for a time of perpetual morning;

Springtime without further task,

trials no more and one less warning.