August

The autumn air, it goes … somewhere? Chiller strains intrude upon basking heat. What once was green no longer lives so fair. Mother’s tax for merriment we did cheat. Her herald, ignored, returns once again. Gloomy prophet of blank nihilism. Living, then dying, so let it begin. Reap them all, O coming cataclysm! Happiness now, it seems a doctored lie. Fair fruit, rotting between my teeth. I feel the shift upon my skin, I die— At the mere fear of sinking in beneath. For all our efforts, we succumb and freeze. I know my fate; I fall upon my knees. 24 August 2016