Seasonal Song

This is not to you.
This is of you as much as it is of me
And of the oceans and vast expanses
Of cliched languages and worn, tired words
Forged each time anew
In the same enough way
Until the steady, insistent fires
Of hammer after hammer of feeling
Leave a broken casing of intent
The thought worth more
Than the useless coined word
Now a ruined currency
Mourned only by the sentimental
Hopping through metaphor
Praying with conviction for enough to die or forget
So their love can bloom truly again,
Thawed from frost after frost
Like they said your roses would
If you would only have patience for Spring
And not fall in love in September.