The seasons die off one by one.
The sounds of their demise take to the wind.
Their moans and groans breeze to our ears.
As we bask in their dying breath.
A sober boy in a bustling City, drowning in his own bottle of despair.
It's too unromantic to look up at the moon here.
It's as though I'm living as a translucent shadow.
Unsure if I can still call who I am me.
Will the cloud's part if I scream in the rain?
Out there in the Storm,that tempest called Life.
After all I'm a dried up Leaf amidst a boisterous summer. A gust of wind could easily be the end of me.
But funnily I'm not scared.
So salutations to my loathsome past, I'm filled with lament and wracked by grief.
But though the sun may not shine on my own little world.
My story Will go on.
