Bad Poetry

I’ve recently found myself considering things in a more figurative light. Life doesn’t seem to be content with a description laced with adjectives like, “mediocre,” or “predictable,” anymore. Instead, it’s been asking me for similes and metaphors. It’s insatiable.

It no longer feels enough to say that I had a bad day. Instead I’ve accepted that my day is better described as a day shrouded in clouds of weathered black lace, hidden from any semblance of sunshine. My grass is yellow and frail. It’s memories of greener times are all but forgotten. Rather than water and rays, it reaches upwards to grasp at the dying leaves that opt to smother it. The whole thing reads like bad poetry.

It’s the mood. There’s something about autumn the brings about this somber loneliness and cold quiet. Despite all of the idle chatter that fills the air around me, it all sounds like silence. The whole season feels like a deep breath and a slow blink…and I love every bit of it.

Autumn is the embodiment of cool grey, painted in a square on an off-white canvas. It’s bad poetry being read over a saxophone and symbols. It’s reading. It’s the cold quiet you hear in your head that envelopes every word you pull off the page of a book. It’s beautiful and I love it. It’s clever in that I find it descriptively indescribable.

I wish this moment could stay year round, but I think I’d miss winter.

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