our hearts are on springs
like cartoon boxing gloves in red velvet
held in tightly for fear
that one can only let go so many times
before the spring is gone.
our genitals are on drugs
pulsing with mindless cravings
omnidirectional
in the summer heat
no reason needs to be supplied
just chance
before the summer's end
our faces fade
like autumn leaves
pressed between books
each spring, each summer
written in the growing
mesh of lines
our souls are cold
unborn, untrained
unused and withered
in this endless winter
of rational summers
tense springs
and back to school
in autumns
Little Black Book by Wayne Myers