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Melody Mann Sep 14
A companion through the seasons you welcomes our every phase, From the bittersweet triumphs to the deafening cries,
You stood alongside us through the mayhem.
Whilst mortality is fickle and forevers aren't certain,
You were the constant that prevailed,
Alas at summer's end you submerged with the currents,
Washing away any potential of tomorrow's sunlight,
Basking in infinite radiance you rejoin the promised,
Memories strike annually of your departure,
A forever friend.
An ode to my uncle whose passing truly left a mark ~
Darlingerode Sep 1
i don’t think
i should grieve
over the ghosts
that lurked through
my whereabouts
when i used to
pass by their graves,
with names carved
soullessly,
coward,
born in july,
cancer vibes,
screaming impermanence
because
they should remain
as what they were,
the ghosts that
drifted without a might
like how august
slipped away
into a moment in time.
august slipped away into a moment in time
Bell Aug 20
would you run your fingers through my hair once more?
wash over me like an august rain
relieving me of the oh so cruel drought
i have cast upon myself
There has been quite a bit of rain, not uncommon for August
Ashley Kay Aug 19
Mesas of sepia
Glow behind
The iris
Of a summer
Passing by
Ashleykay2021
fray narte Aug 8
august is a map of my fullest aches. it always has heartbreaks for me to feel. it is all the wrong lights hitting all my wrong angles and now i'm facing a mirror of my body covered in torn traces of breaths — an empty space, a backdrop for a sight of star dusts lingering. august is a map of my feet where the sea has buried technicolored glasses — all swelling, all wounds dulled by the salt and the summer rain. soon, august will all wear off like a cruel high; it's done seeing me mourning, and i'll be an empty shell for september to wash away.

walk past me in the shallow seas. walk past me in full aching state. walk past me — look past; i long to be a ghost of something delicate, something not terrifying, something that doesn't haunt.
why do I within many of my dreams seem to lock doors
that refuse to remain shut?
  
why must one follower always wither in a dream
why must old friends appear as Judas Iscariot
as tear drops falling down from their faces as rain

I once thought that I understood beauty
yet I could never comprehend it fully
the beauty in this world is only a shadow of things
that I have never seen

when I look into your face
all I can see is beauty my old friend
but as i close my eyes and daydream
all I can see is one follower
withered to an unappealing
dust in my cold brown hands
this triggers me to relax
in the end
a fall breeze will blow it all way
i once looked into blue eyes
i once stared into the atmosphere of fall

yet reflections of my life
will bring me back to old times
An old Friend
Darlingerode Aug 2
here i am in my room
feverish
anxious
listening to "august"
for the nth time
thinking about how
i cancelled my plans
just to meet you
in front of the mall.
do you remember?
Before that August--

(strange month                                        echo)--

bloomed in the east
sunrise bomb                                           sunset dawn

you sometimes
                                                                   rose
(unbidden)

to the surface
of my mind.

These were some of my triggers:

Calgary                                                     (always Calgary)
me too
Christmastime.

And all the times                                     you attempted
to reach out to me

(sucker punch                                          sleep ****).

And then that August--

(good mornin'                                         bombshell)

the news--
for shame.

For I had fallen for the lie
(while you talked all the while
                                                                 in your human voice).

So you like 'em young.
So you like it rough.

August sun                                            beat me down.

It took this glaring
of a light

to show me
the darkest                                             of men's natures--

and that I knew them
intimately.
Dinara Tengri Mar 10
There was a girl
who was carrying flowers on one hot August afternoon,
And whose face you see on the screen today.
Juno Dec 2020
Oh, the sweet warm nights of summer;
     barefoot on the pavement but for once it doesn’t burn,
          walking side by side under the newly born night.
I reach out to hug you and i laugh as i realize
     your hair still smells of chlorine from the pool.
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