It’s nonsense that the seasons are our days;

Each day can seasons be in roiling times.

Say not, too, that the summer’s sunny rays

Don’t burn or blister in uncustomed climes.

As for that moderate beauty you describe,

methinks its moderation is unknown;

is't moderated by some blemish, diatribe

or cruellness that, without, would be full-blown?

In poetry are words without effect

betimes, and only preconceived

can their complexed descriptions be direct

and with no complications be received.

Take analogues and similes with care

lest your interpretations yield despair.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem against poems of procrastinatory creation.

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