The Swear

Winters are harsh; summers harsher in the land
The dove of the soul rarely makes a complete stand
Petrified somewhat of such abandoned sorrow
Until the last breath, each has to see tomorrow

As the stage crawls in its tumultuous right direction,
Situations and events do not at times alter perception
Resonant voices in the woods, skies, seas and caves alike
Several downed wishing the end of sadness strike

Touched by years the soul does, but the mind never learns
Ways in which torches of an unsteady faith burns
Though in vain, brave, the creature always yearns for the sun
From all darkness, in vain it always wants away to run

Long it takes to settle the burning worry of desire
The soul always whispers; fight the water with the fire
Even the edges of a blade start to slowly rust and fade
But the swear is always within, it is never ever made