Anemoia
Whether it be pernicious hailstorms,
Or be shiveringly cold snow.
It shall be in all forms,
And it comes by and goes in a blow.
Surprisingly it can be an exuberant reminiscence
Perhaps a past full of dolorous tear.
One can only see it in essence,
For it is neither far nor near.
Oh, The wonders it brings!
Deftly leaves on in disarray.
When it comes, it subtly clings,
Be it the month of june or the month of may.
May it very well be a place of fantasy,
Even a song so beautifully composed.
People erratically collate it with ecstasy,
By the virtue of emotions it grows.
Though the memories might not be real,
Mesmerizingly it blooms in me and you.
Sometimes it truly can be cordial,
And is delineated by very few.
Well, 'Tis merely a feeling,
So distantly called nostalgia.
As it may be endearing,
Precisely known as anemoia.
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