Which begins to rot from within the apple’s core
And splinters even one’s sturdiest roots
It makes me confuse what most see as revolutionary art with mere ordinary stains,
So it is not unnatural that the colors of my past muddle with time
Why must I forget my favorite colors?
Crimson is not mistaken for violet,
But with the right colored glasses…
Mistakes can happen.
Love should never be defined as obsession
As obsession is infatuation, and infatuation
I am infatuated with circumstances
I am parasitically in love with memories.
Why must my memories be melancholy?
Spending all my time grasping to what I know aging will whisk away,
My future and my present are neglected of the love they deserve
I refuse to abandon my future.
Fear of losing that which will be taken from me will not conquer me
I’ve not yet met the end, but I’m consoled with the knowledge:
I am not where I once was.
Though I may never understand how the common man experiences untainted sentiment,
I have defined my own contentment within
My melancholy memories.
Photo Credit: Natalie Bright