It's cold, it's dark, it's damp.... emoting a moldy mood.The chill blanches the dreary bones, yes, April is the cruelest of month.
A promise of bud, unyielding, as the crocus lies low in splay,
the shine of sun unsmiling, the moon is in disarray.
The night prowls on, the walker wakes
in words, from whispers spoken.
The day drones on with sordid bunches,
a torment from fictitious hunches.
Stick figures point and glow in dark,
mocking a dual of orb.
The glowing hand, outstretched to thee
will catch the moon and set her free.
