As the heat of summer approaches,
I long for cooler days,
when the cider presses are turning
and the hills are set ablaze.
When people slow back down
and relearn to smell the flowers
because they know they'll soon be gone,
an echo of passing hours.
Where the harvest hits full swing
and the leaves are raining gold,
I'm sure that's where you'll find me,
because in my head, I'm home.
YOU ARE READING
Ghostwriter
PoetryLiving with mental illness can oftentimes trap one within the inner maze of their mind. In that place, dreams, fears, wishes, and regrets all compile together to create a new world far from the one we physically exist in. At times, it becomes easy t...
