And every night he would pray,
For the withered leaves of spring.
Send in a wish,
Packed in every shooting star.
Pray for a ray of summer,
But their winter never ended.
He would see her in the greens of the peaches,
Imagine her outstretched hand stretching to reach his.
The sound of her voice reverberated in his hollow,
Calling out, echoing his name,
But it hasn’t been,
Hasn’t long been the same.
He had given them his everything,
And some more.
With every swing of whiskey,
His mind both threatens and begs to explode.
Could he turn back time and freeze the frame?
Every season a summer and autumn never came?
Be spared the pain of the falling of the leaves?
Hide from the winter,
And what it came to be.