Butterflies and rabbits,
Moths and hares.
Good things come,
Yet for the worst we prepare.
Alas good deeds they do not last,
For the seasons they are,
Passive they seem and pretend to care,
But indeed their true forms shall sneak past.
Bring forth the thunder,
One would say.
Along with the despair,
It would stay.
Like a thorn in thick hide,
You must bear,
For when the seasons change,
You are there.
Feeling Man
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