Strokes of yellow penetrated a thin veil of grey, illuminating gold leaves as they briskly fall. Twirling, serenely in mid air as if on an unseen dance floor.
Their grace was a silent plea for winter’s mercy. The naked trees stood tall; boldly in dark brown oak, salmon as though they were never once upon time those beacons of green and lime.
Stranded beggars scowl for the mistress autumn has snatched their complimentary shade, with her unfriendly temperatures leaving them scavenging for shreds of warmth. With open arms, solitary avenues welcome the homeless and beneath a layer of litter scarlet gold pavements tell stories; of broken hearts, playing children, unfortunate souls and many more…
Alone on a park bench, she sits. Scribbling soundlessly, furiously in an old diary. I see her words fall from the murky ink of her pen to a shocking white page, alike you and me her phrases amount to nothing but pain. It is a fable, nothing less but a myth of how they resent you and me so much so we turn out to be what we were meant not. Perhaps it was true when they said I was a negative influence on you and probably my expressions leak out the stalwart stench to my negativity, this never-ending fury.
However, if I am so wrong for you, if truly you are too good for me why do we dance along profound lines of their never-ending hostility?