There is little excuse that I can give
For not having written as of late,
Except that my pen has been out of order,
Correlating with the date.
To understand, you must consider:
My pen is made of magic steel
That can predict seasonal change
By changing how its surface feels.
In the spring, the pen is sticky,
As if it were covered in honey sweet,
And in the summer the metal is scorching,
Buring whatever surface it meets.
In autumn season, the metal turns red,
Like the leaves that are destined to fall,
Then in the winter, the pen will freeze to my skin,
And I can't put the thing down at all.