• _rainfrost_ 6w

    ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ 1: �� ������������������ ��������������

    Fall sneaked so cunningly into this town, on the cobblestone streets, in the sycamore parks, in the wild withering heaths. The air's been chilly; excited children giggle when they see their breath freeze and draw on the foggy windows. Pockets full of tangerine leaves and a sour sunlight washing the fog off the crowded streets. Yet there's been a sadness floating around, making this season an unjustifiable contradiction. Maybe Autumn is that kid who has the sweetest smile and knows things which you didn't in your childhood.

    The cinnabar leaves on ground persuade you to write thousands of proses on paper in candlelight. Beauty dripping from a tragic silence. Unheard stories finding their way home. Autumn's been an innocent muse.

    Bodies tucked inside tweed coats, following the footprints on cold cobblestones. Hoping for a new love, searching for some true warmth. But the slate-grey sky softly kills the bright light within you. Autumn's been delicately cruel.

    A walk in that sycamore park, where lies a picture of this golden age. Paths and benches covered in titian leaves, crisp wind tries to fly away your muffler. The smell of cinnamon pie coming from bakery, makes you drool. Autumn's been a bittersweet emotion.

    Between the fallen maple leaves, lies your fallen kingdom. And you choose to stare at the ground, where your pride and faith is shattered, through your blurry eyes. Each wrinkle on your face reminds you of every pain you've faced in a lifetime. Autumn's been a ruthless taker.

    The mild mizzle leaves droplets stuck on your window-glass. Just like tears leave salt & scars on your cheeks. And you lie alone with your memories and broken heart so you can cry another cup of heartbreak poems. Autumn's been the kind of heartbreak that you can't get enough of.

    The florist's shops are brimming with the scent of rosemaries and peace. The doors and windows are foggy, and a golden sunlight is flickering on the streets outside. You feel like September's sinking in your blood. Autumn's been an ephemeral enchantment.

    The blackbird sits on the oak tree branch, singing a melody of hope written ages ago by the hands of an undying faith. The bourbon roses are dying in your yard, and you feel everything withering away. Autumn's been a cold brook of dried emotions.

    You feel like you're losing every single piece of your soul, like leaves trees can't hold back how hard they try. The pieces of your art start losing colours till they are just ashes, and you find your body painted in a different shade of you, and somehow that's everything you ever needed. Autumn's been a wineglass full of cliches and changing art.

    The fog's been soaking the sere field, while a bluemoon is marked on the sky, like bloodstain on a white rose. The smell of wine is lingering over your lips, and you're feeling lonely. Autumn's been a secret tone of blue.

    For a moment you feel like you know everything, and you realise the time's slipping away so you write a long epistle to yourself. By the end of fall, you promise to leave everything behind. And in its last words Autumn whispers, "I'm the beautiful ghost who haunts this withering lullaby."



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