Love had always been like a season.
Coming every year, and leaving.
Wounds and scars. Hurt.
It had become a circle. Repeating.
Coming to the same place time and time again.
That year I realized you were not a year on repeat but,
A tree under the influence of those seasons.
With all these marks you would stay.
Today would never come back nor would all that pain.
Like the leaves you shed you’d grow back stronger and longer.
You are not a season but a tree with white flowers.
YOU ARE READING
I Hope, I Wish
PoetrySometimes when it seems that all is dark remember after night there is always a dawn, no matter how long it takes it will always come. These are some thoughts that I get and sometimes my emotions. I really hope that I can forget the reality and liv...
