The death of spring: a tale of remorse and lingering sadness

As the snow slowly melts away into tiny crevices of the parched, barren ground of my rotting garden, winter slowly starts curling away.

Spring begins to show its signs of life and gaiety. Yet, even halfway into the season, I can still feel the melancholy lingering from the harsh, remorseful winter, that reminds me of death.

I see flowers blooming in gardens of the houses in my neighborhood, yet my own garden lies dead as a graveyard, where not even weeds would grow.

The apple tree near my house is withering and dying away, contrasting the colourful spring slowly surrounding it.

I feel throttled and asphyxiated amongst the liveliness of the spring season. It's as if I'm a dark gray cloud, on a perfectly sunny day.

Slowly, this lingering feeling of sadness spreads from my house to the neighborhood, like a poison slowly killing spring away, hollowing out its entrails, rendering it lifeless and monotonous.

"Springtime used to be my favorite season,

for it took away the remorseful heaviness from the wintry harshness away,

but it's slowly losing its essence,

for now we all mourn the death of spring,

and I don't have anything to look upto, anymore."