(no subject)
Im considering sending this to the register, tell me what you think! :
It’s nearly November, and the final kiss of summer
Still lingers in the branches of a tree
Too stubborn to yield to the golden touch of autumn, as its brothers have.
But the wear of battle is beginning to show, and it is touched at the temples with
flecks of gold.
Its reflection lies distorted in the wavering mirror of the pond,
Which catches the reflection of the world in a melá nge of colors and hue
As the occasional mallard drifts by, unaware, or at least unconcerned
With the rippling effects it has upon the pond.
As I sit upon a proud dappled-gray stone
Of a bridge that is anything but forlorn, I can’t help but
Notice the fully-submerged bicycle below me, or
The beer cans half-submerged in the golden-brown leaves
And the sorrows of some poor alcoholic soul.
Not too far from here is the place where
We carved our names into a slender white birch, believing
That having our love engraved into the bark of a tree would
Make it everlasting.
Hoping that our love could remain
Far past the prime of summer and
The decay of autumn.
A testament to the fact that time can only
change what we let it.
Neither place is beautiful, let alone pretty;
Littered with garbage, and hobos’ sojourns,
They are tainted.
Ravaged by mankind, which pretended not to know better.
Regardless, both places are a haven to those
Seeking refuge from the don’t stop or slow,
Gray and sharp corners of a generation
Moving away from organic shapes.
But there is no denying it;
this place is as depressing
As a black and white photograph,
Hiding how it is worn thin
By the guise of something beautiful.