As I write this, the crickets outside my window are stifled from their usual summer cacophony. The symphony is dulled by the roaring fires, pouring out clouds of thick smoke and turning our sun red, and our skies gray. Acres upon acres of destruction, ancient forests reduced to ashes, innocent animals scrambling to find a place to survive. Firefighters work desperately to save the trees, save the animals, save the earth from the unforgivable scorch of a forest fire. Southern Oregon sunsets are bathed in a rosy glow from the inferno raging across our home.
I lay here, stifling in the summer heat, as a different kind of smoke drifts in through my window, the smell instantly recognizable to many. I can hear my neighbor laughing in the distance, having a good time with his friends. Worries are far from their minds, as they celebrate the relief the drug gave them, that they've craved for so long. Isn't that funny, how one kind of smoke hints at destruction, and another kind conjures up thoughts of relaxation and "getting high"?
Perception is a funny thing
YOU ARE READING
Poems, from a Bitter Blonde
PoetryI haven't been on Wattpad in over a year, I'll be updating more regularly and fixing my old chapters (oh boy) -- writing is a fun hobby for people with ESD, or "excessively salty disorder". Enjoy :)
