March

Most certainly, I like March much more than February, and January before it.
Anxious feet march toward Spring and warmer days;
Running, always, forward to the next point in time.
Calendar pages fall from the wall like leaves in Autumn, yet
How slowly I became this man I see before me now.

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Visually Stimulated

Visually stimulated by what we fear
Is inside, yet we claim we will never act
On said impulses, could never bring ourselves to
Let our children become monsters, could not
Even fathom what goes on in the
Numb-to-reality mind of a
Child killer; of all innocence
Evil always at odds with