These are the days of skies that drift
Down to hug the canopies and lap softly at the hills.
These are the days of rain that flies,
Droplets suspended in the air that burst as stolen kisses against passing cheeks.
These are the days of flaming trees,
Fire that courses through branches to turn leaves into flickering embers.
These are the days of stillness,
A world holding it's breath, quivering with each and every heart beat.
These are the days of lingering dusk,
Cloying so thickly it can be sliced with a cry.
These are the days.
Autumn's days.
My days.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
These are the days of skies that drift
Down to hug the canopies and lap softly at the hills.
These are the days of rain that flies,
Droplets suspended in the air that burst as stolen kisses against passing cheeks.
These are the days of flaming trees,
Fire that courses through branches to turn leaves into flickering embers.
These are the days of stillness,
A world holding it's breath, quivering with each and every heart beat.
These are the days of lingering dusk,
Cloying so thickly it can be sliced with a cry.
These are the days.
Autumn's days.
My days.
