Four times a year

four new battles,
brown and red
to gone or dead
to buds on empty branches
to then finally new chances.
They go away
till one day in May
when they can face it all
awaiting the next rainfall

A little part of them will always die
continuing to turn a blind eye
till they can no longer identify.
Beneath smiles and jokes
they are being choked.
Life isn’t always what it seems
casted away in the nothingness of dreams,
so many lost battles 
left oh so fragile.

Brown and red
to gone or dead
to buds on empty branches
we always get second chances.

It may seem like you and your past are one,
but the difference lies in what has been done
and what is still yet to come.
There is always another day
another May
another chance to be ok.