The gentle breeze has just a hint of coolness to it,
Barely relieving the humidity even this early in the day.
The fetid air hangs heavy in the trees,
The residue of yesterday’s scorching thermometer.

Is there hope in that gentle breeze?
The first in a season of no seasons.
The land of mold, mildew and bug bites
Reveals itself as a season of perennial hot.

The man sips his coffee and picks up his pencil,
Trying to draw the outline of memories:
Golden days of autumn and snow white cliffs of winter
Where time moves onward in a perpetuum of days.

The man sits stagnant in a world of empty spaces;
A vacuum created like a tunnel through the reality of time.
Nothing ever changes; no one ever reaches for the golden ring of glory
Or the passion of fulfillment in the land of the living dead.

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