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The Season is Coming
Can’t you feel it?
The change?
The light is different?
Less intense
The air is getting cooler
Calming breezes
Crisp nights
Colors coming
Reds, yellows, oranges and golds
Trees showing their best
Apples abound
Smells of cider and cinnamon
Sweaters in stores
Fall coats
Warm socks
Blankets
Hot chocolate
Soups
Apple pie
Bright colors
Hypnotic scents
The season is upon us
It’s coming
Softly, she ventured into the violent night of May,

Where pitch-black winter soaked her bones.

The sea, full of teeth, bit and insisted as she stood there, unmoving.

It was full of music and empty promises; she let the vastness of the agonizing waves drown her rotting body.

The sharp smell of air reeked of bitter billet-doux.

It had been her three hundred sixty-five attempts to be silent; barefoot, she waited and waited and waited.

Under the moonlight, she appeared as a ghastly ghost.

For a moment, she wondered, “Only the wicked remember the sea’s harshness and stay”—a woman personified as storm, mirroring her rage.

She is a twisted soul; death sighs at the sight of her.

The moon exhausted its entire being. “She is full of herself,” he whispered into the dark, corrupted sea.

She imprinted the sands with her unnerving gravity—she walked, and walked, and walked,
Haunted by her visions and dreams, terrorizing the melancholic earth.

Months passed—it was now September.

She’s restless; all she could do was remember.

She kept bathing in the black sea, passionately driving herself to madness.

She kept being pulled and pulled and pulled,

Until survival was no longer an option—her hair slowly being grappled into the lake of fire.

Her last remaining thoughts were of long-forgotten, enchanting, sweet eyes of his.

She dreamed of him—those big, witchery eyes of his.


She remembered, and so the sea deciphered her yearning and pulled her in.
I’m sorry, I can’t help but remember.
It’s early
On a Saturday
The city is quiet
Peaceful
Not many people out
There’s a stillness to it
Refreshing
The air is clear
Shops not open yet
It’s the beginning
Of another day
Soon the quiet will leave
Replaced by people and noise
But for now
There’s a little bit of heaven
In the quiet and peace
Early morning
Don’t take it personal
Illness is terminal
Turned us
Into
Something else
Indiscernible
From the non-verbalize
Gerbils
Still running
Around the unyielding wheel’s
Torturous fortune
Inside a vivarium
Social distortion
Where trickle down
Sustenance
Keeps us appeased
And whatever they feed us
Much sooner diseased
Ever farther from freed
We are just pets in hands
Of the gods of greed
Squeezed

— The End —