Nothing in Particular

Mouths bark of seasons, ones that people go through.
Sometimes it’s a harsh winter or a lively colorful spring.
“That’s what makes you stronger.” they say.
“That’s how you learn.” they say.
I suppose they refer to experience.
A person gains sympathy, compassion, understanding.
These seasons supposedly build up a person, whether having frozen nearly to death or grown taller and stronger.
I believe this to be true,
but not for me, thanks.
Seasons have only stripped me of everything worth anything.
The sun bleached my color an ugly pastel, roots crept in and tore me in two, cold caused mildew, red and orange leaves stick to my sides  drown me.
Seasons don’t grow me, but wear away at me until all that’s left is nothing in particular.

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