They say that poems should include seasons,
Pictures, feelings, sensations; 'imagery'.
Whether it be a concoction, something,
Everything, anything, even nothing.
Whether it be things, memories, persons.

Meticulous pixels make up pictures,
Like when I fell, I had many sutures.
So accurate, captured and so painful.
Imagery of warmth, my heart beats blood red.

I've admired you for some time, oh my.
Your imagery of such indistinct hues!
Like abstact art, leaving me asking: 'Why?'
Gawking, in awe, you're igniting the fuse!
An imagery: 'Burning love in ashes.'

I am restless of what is left. An empty shell that was once so full. Being drained over time, with its contents close to empty. It seems as though punishment over shadows, for something that was never caused.

But why, for any reason, am i being treated thus. There are no explanations to such actions, or there lack off.

Frailty in promises, which seem to multiply over time. Yet, i linger, not wanting to give up. Its it foolishness or bravery? What governs me so to my actions? What is to become of me?