the sun was yellow; like the lemons on the tree; like her hair whipping in the breeze; like the finch on the branch, singing an insipid song of hope

the grass was brown; like the barren earth beneath; like the rough scaled bark of the tree; like the squirrel chittering, at the bereftness of will

and it all feels so goddamned hopeless; standing at the cusp of something; only to have loose soil give way beneath; waves of pain and constant nausea

sometimes my nostrils flare; the scent of lilacs fill the room; instead of enjoying the rapturous scent; i assume it is a tumor and ready myself for death