Wistful Rarity

I think people never really move on. Once they have readjusted with the pain of having lost someone who's really close to them, they start unconsciously searching for people who can come as close to a replacement as possible. It's about a year full of greying emotions. It's about our eagerness to start over. 

Spring's here, they said.
With a woodland scent; and eyes crystalline,
With lashes dark like the ladies of knights.
She wears a garland of sword-leaves and spikes;
With gladiolus, roses and butterflies entwined.
A sight to behold: exuding the light of a thousand orbs,
Carved out of a white lily; she is made so intricately!
Her smiles are more; a touch of true love adds rarity.

Summer's here, they said.
With her hair parted like rifted Summer leaves;
Her face ceases the eyes from the beholders a while;
Sheltering them from the wrath of a noon aflame.
Her eyes are shadowy; and comforting the stillness,
Honey hives are not sweeter than endearing voice,
Blushing as pretty as a laden strawberry tree.
She's in full bloom; a touch of true love adds rarity.

Autumn's here, they said.
She treads barefoot in the music of her feet;
Her eyes are clear; challenging bluer oceans to spill.
Her laughter rings like trickling of mid-autumn streams.
The vibrancy of her moods; puts the flowers to shame.
She rocks her sorrows and colours into the same bed.
Having learned this too from him and his treachery;
Ignoring the coming of melancholy; a touch of true love adds rarity.

Winter's here, they barely whisper.
With hollow eyes made of dead black fears;
Brittle flakes; fringe her twisted braid of troubled hair,
Her sooty eyes and sooty frock; have frills of frozen tears.
Her sighs blow out the last candlesticks of the night.
As she sips black tea with phantoms of lost love,
Her heart fills with ebony light; aching sans calamity,
Welcoming illusions of Spring and delight; searching for wistful rarity.