It was the changing seasons that made him think of this, As the boy tried to overcome the growing anxiety, Ripping through the clouds of each overcast day, And descending through the darkness of all the nights he'd cried. In the darkest hour of his life, for long he'd hoped, That he could feel always the emotions He had followed to find himself there, And the light encountering the tunnels end. This affectionate, compassionate boy was becoming obsolete - The times they gripped his dysfunction, And moulded him into a man, As he still clutched the sacred parchments he wrote in his youth, Never wanting any material than that which was in his hands, Just tracking a path of greener grass, searching out happiness, And the hope of maintaining a spirit undivided, untamed, Still wanting the sky to be beautiful in his ageing mind, Still wanting the summer sun to embrace winter skin, And the moon to ripen eyes enough to shed a tear, With the songbirds and the colours just as rich, To this world he would toast with melancholic smiles and every beat of his heart. And as he did set off towards the sunset of time, His heart beating ever faster at the prospect of what lay before him, His eyes focussed but skin becoming frayed by the world, (And all natural progressions towards death), He turns to himself and says, "The boy still lives on".
