Between The Seasons Ripe Budding Flowers

Between the seasons ripe budding flowers,
And the cold white fog of winter's breath.
He has seen the grief every hour
Brings. He has felt the cold hands of death.

Like a flower coming to its end -
He has seen men's faith wither.
Tears, like falling pedals, scattered by the wind,
And hope, buried in his soul's longest winters.

Slowly becoming scattered throughout the past;
He is longing for something to desire.
Searching, for a season of rest
While being refined by the fire.

And so it is, on some night like this
When flipping through the pages of time.
He welcomes his betrayer's kiss,
Then continues to climb.

Tired and weary he might wish for a reprieve to sleep,
Never to awake from dreaming.
He seeks not the tears of them who weep.
Or the voices in his head still screaming.

But he has hope, as each new day gives rise to another
Looking forward to the sun of spring arriving
And as the light breaks through leaving behind what he discovered
He welcomes hope and his new life arising.