My life is on the verge of June,
My pledges hadn't passed December,
My brittle mind is time-immune,
Jammed, at crossroads of September.
I beg you not to sign July,
For I have no maps of summer,
I am a voyager 'by eye',
By heart, I am a fortune charmer.
My April‘s destined to a halt,
That’s when I let myself be vulgar.
Am, eight and twenty years old,
With missing skills of true beholder.
My Augusts - merely remorse,
Am in grave like for cast-off pebbles.
Am letting losses run their course,
And trees lose leafs over my riddles.
I am indifferent in March,
Love, no love - all indivergent.
Let me do you, for we do match,
And, our end-want be convergent.
The world will never hear ‘we’
That’ll pass my mouthguards of wits,
No ice be melt, ‘tis January,
Than, February - my foolish fits.
I want October for myself,
As much as I do want November,
Be fool about in print wealth,
Don’t ask me why, I won’t remember.
I would’ve worshiped you in May,
Be tender, uncontrollably drawn,
Seek you in every sunray…
You - weren’t there. May - is gone.