Now is the season for death. A death that will bring life once again, but for that life we must die now. This is the season for love. A love that will take you further apart, but for that love, this love must die.
The present is doomed. The past misunderstood. The future? The future is known. The future is death. The thing we call love is filled with the thing we call hate. The one and the other are equal to the eye.
The chill winds blow and the ill winds whisper their sweet murmurings of deceit. The body cries how! How did this happen? Did you not see the signs of decay? The glimmer of gathering gloom, the lengthening shadows?
Leave now, she cries, as the red bleeds from the trees and the swirling miniature tornadoes chase your feet, scampering puppy-like just out of reach of your toes.
The wind tears at you and the eyes tear. You turn away hiding the hurt, your voice is silent, the shoulders are straight, painfully straight. There is warmth somewhere, far away.
The first signs of implosion are not seen, not felt. The world is just a place where happiness is earned, where love is not a right, and sadness runs free every day.
The past doomed you. The present buries you. The future, when it comes, will relieve you. Think of the past with love, think of the present with sadness. Think of the future with no regret.
Let the red bleed from the trees. Let it show the way. Let the light change from a glorious brilliance to a dull grey. Let it all happen. Let it flow with no hindrance and no let.
Now is the season for death. A death that will bring love once again, but for that love we must live now. This is the season for life. A life that will take you from love, but for that life, you cannot die.