cover me.
for a moment
or two.
this season
has grown short
making miracles minimal.
still Terra swells to her icy blessing
and d'evils d'escend
to dissolve our d'esideratum.
this season
has grown too short, to pay penance
still i wait for midnight sun to bathe my stigmata.
in the embrace of amity
she is still; sated.
sowing serendipity.
slowly reclaiming
her marks as my own.
but this season, this season
has grown, so short
providence promises naught.
my soul subsists in this
sackcloth cielo
awaiting aurora.
sentient eyes seek nocturnal sunshine
for only one season
and this season, grows short.
