death of summer

Summer draws its last breath
The north wind approaches mercilessly
Feelings that you didn’t care to express
are now stirring up controversy
Blue stains green, a real mess you’ve made
Why still live in your fantasy?
Why not let it go and just fade?

Howling wind, painfully numb
Singing a song that no one hears
Empty jazz tones, similarly controlled 
Intertwines in a colorless dance 
A quiet melody takes form
Deserted hearts, is this where that ends?

Single tones crescendoing, and now in choir 
clangs in disharmonious intervals
All that now is left, is the echoes of disappointment 
Lingering in the air, until it fades into nothing

Strange how the stories goes
We write and write, til the ink is dry
Does it complete us in any way? 

The actress thirstily waits for her lover
He swiftly appears and takes her fair hand 
The audience gasp, their acts uncover 
Slowly intoxicating themselves grand
 
Drunk on the shakespearean letters  
It is a play for anyone but them
carelessly breaking free of their fetters 
Which once treasured they now turn to condemn 

living in their bobble which grows lighter
Only to fall down each to their own

Strange how the stories goes
We write and write, til the ink is dry
Does it complete us in any way? 
Are we not still empty, laughable really  
Just Children playing pretend
But does anyone really know this game
And in the end, aren’t we all just playing pretend
Autumn approaches, but you don’t really care
you live on in your fantasy
in your fantasy