winedime3
confetti connoisseur
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- Today 1:06 PM
- Messages
- 655
It started with an autumn breeze...
A hot, humid, stifling breeze that was not autumn at all.
The summer sun bled long into the nights.
Scorching the earth, warming its inhabitants.
No- smothering them. Suffocating them.
There was no reprieve from its oppression.
What might they notice if their screens were not so bright?
Society pushes the season.
Pumkin spice this. Pumkin spice that.
Halloween candy lines the shelves.
Costumes, too.
They keep you busy,
You don't even see me dying.
You won't even notice the way the leaves
skip over blood reds, ostentatious oranges, captivating yellows,
and plummet for the ground.
Brown, brittle and dead, instead.
Monster mash, monster mash.
The world will skip past
autumn this year.
Swelter in summer until winter's chill wraps its cold arms around summer's waist.
Only to embrace her for a blink.
And then summer will be back again, dressed up with a flower crown.
You 'll call her spring.
And pretend her heat doesn't offend you as much.
They'll complain.
Oh, they'll complain.
About all of it.
But they still won't notice.
They've got toktiks, bookfaces and chatsnaps to occupy their time.
It all started with an autumn breeze
that never fucking blew.
A hot, humid, stifling breeze that was not autumn at all.
The summer sun bled long into the nights.
Scorching the earth, warming its inhabitants.
No- smothering them. Suffocating them.
There was no reprieve from its oppression.
What might they notice if their screens were not so bright?
Society pushes the season.
Pumkin spice this. Pumkin spice that.
Halloween candy lines the shelves.
Costumes, too.
They keep you busy,
You don't even see me dying.
You won't even notice the way the leaves
skip over blood reds, ostentatious oranges, captivating yellows,
and plummet for the ground.
Brown, brittle and dead, instead.
Monster mash, monster mash.
The world will skip past
autumn this year.
Swelter in summer until winter's chill wraps its cold arms around summer's waist.
Only to embrace her for a blink.
And then summer will be back again, dressed up with a flower crown.
You 'll call her spring.
And pretend her heat doesn't offend you as much.
They'll complain.
Oh, they'll complain.
About all of it.
But they still won't notice.
They've got toktiks, bookfaces and chatsnaps to occupy their time.
It all started with an autumn breeze
that never fucking blew.