Universe of vast multitudes of light and wonders such as Mars,

Till the end of time if such a thing exists, we shall never know.

Undying words such as these may continue if not lost in flow.

My thoughts return to many ideas and certainties of our short past.

Never to be proved wrong, now medieval deceptions, gone at last,

Returning seasons change each year, different in one way or the other.

Each still recognized by four designated names, told by Earths mother.

Filled and glorified, feared and empty, they continue to mark time.

Lessons shared and forgotten, passions and indifferences the crime,

Every memory that is recalled earns a presence to be shared to all.

Characters of life are as different as each and every star I saw.

Travel to autumns past to see the end of beauty in masks of color.

I have lived through 51 seasons; this shall never make me a scholar.

Only a weaver of lines that should live beyond this generation,

Next seasons deliverers shall behold or deny truth or frustration.

Seasons of the future may be the same or of a different sensation.