Landscape Lake Sunset from Pixabay

Seasons Turn

Greg Prince
2 min readJun 20, 2019


No wasted moments.

Overwhelmed with things to do and I’m doing nothing.
Will one word coming forth be remembered?
Will one thought be of any consequence?

What is the depth of my futility?

Where does an idea disappear and go to lack fruition?
Will my legacy be of thin threads and moth-eaten ne’er-do-well, unfulfilled ambition?

How can the stabbing voices be silenced?

Overcome with insights I flee seeking false freedom.
Orgasmic delights give brief relief.
Fantastic imaginings vivid and real.

When does one let go of creeping memories?

By a hammer molten of sheer desire, tides will change.
Befall on me mocking taunts but I will strain against you.
Though you throw brimstone, Fates of anguish, my gratefulness will prevail.

Why do the thorns not cease in their assault?

Minutes measured mingle minute minature missions.
Fingers finding fierce fanciful fringes.
Growing, gaining, galloping gross gathering.
Please extend useful meaning to soothe blank souls searching for substance.
We are grinding to find, to shape, to form into a more productive trance.
Laugh at death.
Laugh at mocking.
Laugh at failure.
Grin at them teaching strength and building character.
Embracing pain to see it’s lessons.
Plans go amiss and destruction…



Greg Prince

Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.