SEASONS A poetic narrative in Four Parts

The sun pierces the surface of my skin, the pale milk tone boils to a swollen red. Buzzing critters
pierce my skin, drawing mana of life from within and hastily retreating at the sight of a swiping
finger. Sweat cascades down my forehead, creating a swamp of heated fluid around my feet.
Breath runs low, the infernal air choking my senses, mucus dribbling from my small round
nostrils, further to my mouth and enters, only parching my pallet more. My eyes, bloodshot and
irritated close, hiding the tears I feel approaching the duct.

A moment passes, and soon time changes. Once punctured with bodily oils and sunburn now
stand still, frozen almost, but soon swaying gently as trees do with red and yellow leaves. A
mellow warmth encapsulates my body, soothing the former pain that surrounded me. My eyes,
calmed in the gentle breeze become placid, no longer writhing in sweltering portentousness. The
sweat that once oozed, now begins to fade, leaving a serene landscape of skin behind. My nose,
no longer dripping with scalding snot, now stands dormant, no longer irate of the heat.

Another passing moment, and times do change. Soothed by the sudden favourable environment,
my neck begins to tingle and shudder, my throat ravenous for breathable air. From the tips to the
inner tendon, my fingers are attacked by an unwanted frost, snaking its way across each; the ring,
the index, the middle, the pinkie, and the thumb. Slowly, but hungrily, it crawls up my arm, now
gripping tightly. My teeth chatter like an untuned xylophone; a percussive effect that rings in my
frost-bitten ears, which all but drowns in the undying, energetic, thoughtless chill that caps my
exterior. Unable to move any limb, I peer from side-to-side, my peripheral vision obscured by the
powdery flakes that dwindle to the icy ground below me.

Unknown of my condition, the moment halts, but does pass in its immoderate fashion. And after
many moments more, my body begins to change. The icing on my very frost-caked body loosens,
the grip slipping from my face, and descending down my visage to the pastoral-green grass
below. These drops of liquid ice bloom to fruitful bouquets of multi-coloured flowers. Each time
a new posy is formed, my build grows looser and looser. I stand solemn, almost statue-like until
the entirety of the perma-frost has left it. I take the deepest breath possible, my lungs filling with
crystal clear air, and exhale victoriously as the sun begins to rise over the florally encrusted valley.

The story I have told, is one the world does hold,

A tale of heat so bold, and days of icy cold.
The year has a reason, a somewhat global speaking,
A from inferno to frosty prison, a reading of each season.