Seasons

The land is green.
Rivers of clear blue,
Slice through it.
Brown of trees,
Lay tall above,
The green land.
Red and yellow,
Soon cover it.
It moves fast as,
Lighting.
Leaving nothing,
Un-touch.
The land is,
Soon nothing but,
Black waste.
The light echos,
Of prey and,
Hunter,
Are no more.
The storms are dry,
And slim.
White soon covers,
The land.
Falling from mix,
Gray skies.
Its cold and lonely.
The land is,
Nothing but,
Wasteland.
Winter is gone.
Springs hops in,
Place.
Replace with a,
Blaze of,
Summer.
A bipolar,
Fall smacks in.
Leaving but another,
Winter to happen.
This is what,
Nature is.
An endless,
Cycle.
It repeats,
Over and over.
Til there is nothing,
But endless,
Time.
When will this,
Stop and there is,
Nothing left.
Who will be the,
Person to see,
The sun or,
The moon?
When will the,
Seasons stop?
When will people know,
We are only,
Human.
Why do any of us not,
See it?
When will anyone,
See that?
When in the hell,
Will theses tears,
Stop and I can,
Smile one more,
Time.
Bye.

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