10-23-2018, 07:38 AM
Summer in Autumn
It's her name,
I didn't make it up,
nor the month she was born.
I definitely didn't choose the year.
Drinking age now, back into my life
with the climate changing:
new rules annexing those mad, mindless
boundaries of love.
O long Summer,
where can I run to not to burn?
I could melt the icecaps alone only
with memory of your warm sighy voice.
What would they say with all their high talk
and vicious insinuations?
And maybe what they say is true;
but I see what Yeats meant with tragic joy
and have prepared songs to drown out
cruel and hateful alarms.
But O that I were young again
and—
It's her name,
I didn't make it up,
nor the month she was born.
I definitely didn't choose the year.
Drinking age now, back into my life
with the climate changing:
new rules annexing those mad, mindless
boundaries of love.
O long Summer,
where can I run to not to burn?
I could melt the icecaps alone only
with memory of your warm sighy voice.
What would they say with all their high talk
and vicious insinuations?
And maybe what they say is true;
but I see what Yeats meant with tragic joy
and have prepared songs to drown out
cruel and hateful alarms.
But O that I were young again
and—