A poem on melancholy and the seasons of life.
A winters pale,
gilded by the splintered
shards of spring time;
their essence seared
into summer, bright
embers soared on
autumns wing.
One meld of hours and
seasons, rendered throughout
a medley of shades;
though variable,
their subtle portends
cannot affect his
listless disposition.
In a barely lit
room, he perceives
through sullied panes,
the multifarious
revolutions of
a perpetual
carousel.
Unmoved at the
rounded periphery
of its vast rotations,
he is apathetic
to the spectacle,
and the expounded
discerning of opportunity.
Poetry in its essence 
)…very cool!
Marie, Ethcics, thank you very much for your feeback
Take care
Lew
I like the way you put it, a good poetry, I’m still learning how to write in this poetic manner.
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