It is seven o clock. This Thursday, the sun will set forty minutes from now. It is the becoming of seasons. My exit from Summer, steps closer to the true Fall.
Time's tainting of nature is shifting, not quite set in its normal, crystalline pattern. It is close. The leaves on the trees have oranges and yellowed. The air is crisp and its wind breathe but do not howl. The ocean is no longer a pleasant extension of one's self. It is chilling, a reminder to be wary of entering abysses.
The time is close to alter our physical clocks. The sun is setting earlier and earlier, the days and their light feel shorter.
Before my mutations, these things passed by me and I did not give them much thought. I would wake and notice the sun risen at irregular times. Feeling uncomfortable and something close to disoriented.
But now I feel the changes in every cell of me. I grow thin waiting for the day Death grants me mercy. I will then leave this existence which demands my tireless consciousness from what is to come and the effects of what was done.
I climb an impossible vine. This origin born in a deeper Hell, extending past Heaven.
My song is melody light and these rhythms churn complex.
And I seem to complicate every relationship silently.
Internally I am coarse meat. A withered pallette suited to last semester's tastes.
Yet externally, accidentally I am steel and wine. The simple beauty of complex
Tragedy