Oct 2014
The summer was a time for the Blues and muddy water.
While the fall seems to hold something sinister.
Like a word on the tip of your tongue it hangs in the air.
Waiting.
There is beautiful melancholy in the leaves; Autumns musicians sing their repetitive, lonely songs.
Out here, it stirs, hanging heavy on their coat-tails.
Creating sagging eyes and matted hair.
It seems Autumn is a time for beautifully sinister chords accompanied by soft voices made harsh by long draws on their cigarettes and sighs full with crisp air.
While the fall seems to hold something sinister.
Like a word on the tip of your tongue it hangs in the air.
Waiting.
There is beautiful melancholy in the leaves; Autumns musicians sing their repetitive, lonely songs.
Out here, it stirs, hanging heavy on their coat-tails.
Creating sagging eyes and matted hair.
It seems Autumn is a time for beautifully sinister chords accompanied by soft voices made harsh by long draws on their cigarettes and sighs full with crisp air.
eh, just one of those writes that just sorta pour outta my head.
*edit, I actually revised this one.*
*edit, I actually revised this one.*
(Augusta Ga)
Please log in to view and add comments on poems
