August is not graced with
sunshine and flowers,
and a longing for the cold to return
I weep for the August that could have been
'Nonsense' we say
as we chastise the birds
for continually returning home,
'an entire world out there
and yet here you sit, in my little tree,
go out and live' we scream,
as we sit and watch from our windows
just before retiring to our beds
to then wake up.
My mind is an oil spill,
keeping my spirit ablaze.
But they are not alone, for
dark, damp, and dingy poisons
are ruining the show.
Oh my love.
You are the euphoria
and the me inside of myself is the sludge.
I cannot remember which is truth.
— The End —