Conception

Warm, sultry summer nights,
Mosquitoes, like miniature biplanes of the damned, waiting to siphon your dreams,
A buzzing, invisible orchestra of thirst.
Are you ready for this heatwave to end,
This shimmering, hallucinogenic mirage of heat?
Is it worth your soul, this fevered, melting season?
Or is it a nuisance to behold, a sticky, surreal dream?

For there comes Winter, a porcelain ghost,
Zero zero winds whispering secrets in a language of ice,
Shoveling three feet of snow, a Sisyphean task in a white void.
Is it any better, snuggling under warm blankets,
Cocooned in comfort, a world away from the frostbite moon?
A time for conception, perhaps, in the silent, frozen heart of time?

However, you’re more in a hurry, a frantic, kaleidoscopic dance,
To shed your clothes in Summer, like peeling back layers of reality,
A time for conception, driven by sun-drenched madness.
Making love isn’t always for the young, a forgotten melody,
But a phantom echo in the winter's hush.
How nice to show you still care, a flickering, bioluminescent spark,
In each other’s arms, a temporary haven from the swirling cosmos.

Not a time for conception, necessarily,
But a time for resurrection, a phoenix rising from the ashes of the mundane,
A rekindling of the flame, a whispered secret in the vacuum of space.
A time to feel alive, vibrant, and whole,
A shared breath in the face of the infinite, indifferent universe.