Time for a Change in Seasons

There's a feeling you get
when thinking of seasons.
A hollowness
wishing it stayed the same.
Wishing it never rained,
but to feed the flowers.
'cause what does snow do
but turn tears to ice cubes,
pervert all warmth.

No, there's no escape
from weather's rape.
No, there's no escape
from weather's rape.

It's natural, that trees fall
sometimes, usual that leaves small
can block out the sun, and
prevent new life.

Is it necessary
for a life to become so weary
to have to bury some bones
under piles of stones,
and wait, for them
to decompose?







I'm sort of disgruntled right now. It makes little sense to me what compels a person to always associate the outside world with things that are of the internal world. Like something they achieve through imagination can be immortalized in objects. I'm not sure who it was that said this, possibly Hume, but there is something distinctly different from the thought of an object and the perception of it. In that sense I also believe that the actuality of the object also differs. While the obvious case appears that what separates them is how they are perceived, there is also the somewhat not obvious case that unifies them.

So far, the process of my thought misconstrues my intentions, and so far from linear has become my ability to rationalize naturally. I hope for my own sake that lines will fade and all of the universe shall appear in jumbled obscurity, objectively.