Of all the seasons, Fall?
The days when the trees shed their mess?
The time where the winds start to depress
And rain sprays the ground hoping to nourish the dying cress.
Feels like the cold wind knows the pain I feel for her. All my undying love.
The sound it makes as it hammers, bangs against the window,
Mimicking the very bodily reaction I’ve now grown ailed of.
I wonder sometimes if the emotion dies,
Or lives because we like the memory of what we desire most of.
Even hindering my eyes, my thoughts, such as the clouds hide the sun
Never contends the termination of matured love.
Alone inside, watching my spirit and days grow void, numb.
It’s true, at first; it’s great to be enthralled.
But then again, why fall.