So. I came to college to be a...english mahor. and then realized that i didn't much like anything at school except...perhaps poetry. so that's how i got the world's most useless major. but hey i like it.
Autumn
Ill take you down, past the postboxes
Tilt your chin and look up at the evening sky,
Water suspended in the air and if it were any colder here,
Theyd be flurries of snow.
White and pure.
Mostly trees have lost their leaves.
Branches bear, they wear their last
Sparkles of emotion
Fully exposed, ready to fall.
And if those giants let them drift,
They fall to an unforgiving earth
Now, take my hand and walk with me.
The roads are sprinkled with puddles from this rain
Each seeming merely shallow.
I want to jump into each and everyone,
Feel the water splash around me,
Soaking me through, secretly
Hoping one will swallow me whole
Deeper than anyone dared think.
Each structure is distinct.
The fences seem to sing
Staves of spring time songs.
Each house, a wide welcoming door-mouth
Glassy eyes watching as we pass.
The mouths speak one thing and their eyes say another
But from here all the houses become little children
Mothered and fathered by the Church and the Hall on the hill,
She is blanketed in white, coats of snowy paint on her wooden sides
He is just and commanding, up on the hills, looking over all.
Autumn
Ill take you down, past the postboxes
Tilt your chin and look up at the evening sky,
Water suspended in the air and if it were any colder here,
Theyd be flurries of snow.
White and pure.
Mostly trees have lost their leaves.
Branches bear, they wear their last
Sparkles of emotion
Fully exposed, ready to fall.
And if those giants let them drift,
They fall to an unforgiving earth
Now, take my hand and walk with me.
The roads are sprinkled with puddles from this rain
Each seeming merely shallow.
I want to jump into each and everyone,
Feel the water splash around me,
Soaking me through, secretly
Hoping one will swallow me whole
Deeper than anyone dared think.
Each structure is distinct.
The fences seem to sing
Staves of spring time songs.
Each house, a wide welcoming door-mouth
Glassy eyes watching as we pass.
The mouths speak one thing and their eyes say another
But from here all the houses become little children
Mothered and fathered by the Church and the Hall on the hill,
She is blanketed in white, coats of snowy paint on her wooden sides
He is just and commanding, up on the hills, looking over all.
Welcome to SG!