Sixty seasons witnessed,
Wishes for Autumn to linger,
Spices converted into chemicals,
My mother so often lit.

School-focus fades with the leaves,
Strange dread gifted with the snowing season,
Sardonic religious banter,
to futile church pleads.

High in the sixties,
Yet yearning for thirty,
Patio setups,
Alarm clocks outnumbered,
Brief chirping for morning.

Complains abruptly frequent,
Impatience for the end,
School bells and teenage screams,
The privilege to say,
Sixty-four seasons witnessed.

And begin again.

A tree almost fell on my room today, I did not get out of bed.
I remained underneath the covers and listened to the rain instead.

Awake and conscious, I heard the uprooting of the tree,
But an absence of fear stopped me, for I chose not to flee.

No longer a fear or a worry ablaze,
I am content with the reaper's ways.

I've progressed since depression,
And a therapy session,

And yet when four AM came, I could have fled to safety,
But I remained in my bed that early morning, as if waiting for death to take me.