As the heat doth rise, so does earthly rage.

Seasonal joy has faded with the snow

And brotherhood has not yet come of age.

One man’s sorrow is a turbulent flow.

It washes over him--a massive wave,

Breaking him apart from the good of the whole.

Though once one, he’s become known as the knave.

The seething humidity takes its toll.

Those falling victim to the heat of the sun

Are as many as fall prey to him.

With horror, he finds himself on the run.

The prospect of life to resume are grim.

He wishes for the coolness of the fall air.

Wiping the beaded sweat from his tired brow,

The last sound heard becomes proof of his vow.