Mundane is the broken heart singing lullabies.
Tomorrow waits,
And winter sings a saying, seeing only sighs.
The myth lasts for ever,
And nothing ever dies.
Upon a sonnet in the season, Shakespeare wrote of mirth.
In the cold, a person sneezes,
A grandma giving birth.
The impossible is treated coldly for its
pretended being.
And I,
The fool,
Am of worth.
