The Greyest of Rain

When wintertime beckons we follow,

Abandoning summertime’s heart,

Forgotten is fall’s sleepy hollow,

And springtime’s seams slip apart.

With cauterized minds we wander,

Away from what is called real,

So eager we are to ponder,

Yet petrified we are to feel.

What must be done is a fire,

We’ll stoke it beneath every vein,

Then warm blooded we’ll see desire,

In even the greyest of rain.