7 Nov 2014
Although it is well into spring the mornings are like winter. It's cold and a slight breeze flows through the air. Not a breeze you can see; only feel. On the horizon where the trees should be on the mountains there is only a whitish grey cloak. The fog is evident in the air and as you spin you can see it consuming things around you. The things it absorbs are a certain length away. It feels like your in the eye a storm. White Iceberg roses stand tall and blossoming in the corner of the garden. It's the only thing that reminds me it is still spring. In a strange sort of way the crisp white roses fit in with the whitish grey fog and the grey brooding sky. I feel calm. It is perfect. Despite my goosebumps that I have under 3 layers of clothes I still feel that I would love to live in that moment forever. A simple morning. Dew sticks to blades if grass on the ground. Small sparkles on each one. The trees are a healthy green. Their large explosion of green, spindly protrusions placed aimlessly seem to fight off the ominous fog. The back steps hurt my cold tired legs but I pull myself up with determination to make it back to bed. With one last look out over the town I head indoors to finish sleeping.
YOU ARE READING
The recollection of my misunderstood thoughts.
PoetryLife's a struggle and it's hard. There's nothing you can do. Just get trough it. I hate my life. There's nothing new. But when the sun is out and the sky is void of clouds you can't help but feel a smile is overdue
