In all poems summer is,
if anything, a breath of life
that never seems to cease
to bloom and will always suffice.
The problem with summer is this:
it brings droughts burning our bliss,
the heat and winds give birth to flames
that locks green grass in aching chains.
Summer swallows our energy savagely
then leaves us lifeless, dying in its heat.
It desiccates water from running rivers
and abandons them in sorrowful thirst.
The problem with summer is this:
it’s disaster disguised as a kiss
YOU ARE READING
A Series Of Events
PoetryI've found that I am most comfortable in discomfort and chaos, as opposed to serenity and happiness; probably because this broken part of me is all I've ever known. love, turmoil, desperation, infatuation, betrayal, death. these poems will contain...
