September Rain

The cold sat beside me once again,
Accommodating her hallowed spot.
The Crimson self-eating Ouroborus like flames,
Competing and preying on each others’ last.

Meanwhile, my wrong hand was held by a force,
And an icy silhouette had shrouded all of the warmth.
A jovial tale courting an old lamenting lore,
It was the innocent Present who was embracing the ravaging Past.

Like a tree, a tree that bore the yellow sweet,
With a false hope that it will survive in the polar greens.
An aging piano played the eeriness with the darkest of extremities,
Till the music broke my heart and all it dreams.

Buoyancy compromised with the depression again,
Which marked the beginning of the mournful ‘September Rain’.

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