Curse of an Evergreen Autumn
All there is,
green. Leaves are
green. Grass is
green.
Does one not get tired?
Where does all the color go
to carry you in waves
through whipping, whisking, kinder winds
that commence harvest?
But instead, you fall back
To meet concrete and dirt.
The colourblind can see it all
For what it is, a washed-out
Paradise. Where shades and tints
all bleed into monochrome grey
That seeps off the sheet
and turns the picture
the color of a dirge.
Can foliage
reflect the mood of creatures
it surrounds?
I close my eyes to see
(warm, toasty feelings summed up in tree leaves)
but the chlorophyll has muddied
to brown noise, brown death.
Has the sun been this unforgiving
or have I been unforgiving to my surroundings?
If mood could so reflect the nature surrounding
us,
could boredom have made this frame so drab?
Romanticising dried plants
Dyed that way from the heat
of my ennui,
dusted palms surface.
I can no longer romanticise
That which is green and bleeds
into the mud.
But I can irrigate the seeds
of the seasons and will them
to materialize
before my eyes,
Romanticising dried plants
Dyed that way from the switch
of the equinox,
crunched blankets surface.
Hi, I’m Spooky Bambina, writing as Spooky Bee Jones. Call me Spooky™. Did you enjoy this writing? Share with me your thoughts in the comments below. Thanks for reading, cool cats!
Keep up with my wacky supernatural adventures on Instagram and TikTok. To see more of my writing in other places as well as my other renaissance woman endeavors, visit my Beacons page.
