It's always the same poem I'm writing
It's never ending
It's only an attempt to take death a bit from us. 

Your Presence

There's a real difference between moss and mold:
Your presence a gift and future thrift,
Your presence in every object that I have and seek,
Your presence that shuts down the world outside,
Your presence that reclaims all the love of the Universe,
Your presence in which I almost believed before you left,
Your presence in the hands and feet with my every step,
Your presence most of all in my head and chest,
Your presence stuck in the confused labyrinth of my mind,
Your presence born out of surprise and summer's blinding light,
Your presence that is simple the smile on my face,
Your presence in the movies I watch,
Your presence the present I asked.

No one knows what the horizon will bring;  
if heavy rain, clouds or hot sun. 
They say you can plan a picnic  
but you can't predict the weather; 
you can always take an umbrella. 
People also say: hope for the best and for the worse prepare. 
Well, as for me, I don't know
 haven't got a clue of what's left. 
I'm not even able to think about it 
'cause I'm too busy enjoying the colours of the horizon sunset. 

What do you do with all the love that you got? Does anyone know how it's quite a lot? Spread your wings and dream away among stories of forget-me-nots. You put your dreams and creativity in a box, tuck all the love in too, hoping someday someone will notice that in the end Love is all that humans got.

They despise you, they ignore you, they wouldn't care if you ceased to exist. They don't look at you, because you are their consuming beast. Your name is Master of Time and they keep running against you, but you always catch them and show them who they truly are: just grains of sand to be engulfed by the ultimate tar. 

Does Summer love withstand the cold of Winter? Does Autumn romance survive the rain in Winter? Does the Winter body warmth surpass the temptations of Spring? I don't know, I've fallen in love with every season.