Fragile cases of disillusioned men come tumbling down the street.

Seeking justice on a promise of lips

No one heard a thing they said

Distant passersby scoff at the disruption to their walk

It is not yet spring

Loud voices clash

On mountains of ill-forgotten deeds of kindness

Silver clatters to the floor

Making its way to the bottom of boots and carriages.

No man sits quietly now

These fragile things have broken down upon inspection

Mutterings of sweet words on drunken lips

“Oh it is indeed a great necessity to cherish a blissful melody.” 

It is not yet spring

Vines find themselves wrapped around once tall standing buildings

Snickering to the other, “Oh I’ll bloom this year, you bet.”

Dreams of folly

Yet even plants know that

It is not yet spring