It's the weather for it

 

This is... It's the weather for it.

It feels like I could successfully contact the dead.

It's the end of November and fallen leaves on the ground

are easily read.

Winter season brings a haunting to resilience. Or resilience to a haunting.

I'm not meaning through a performative medium.

Guests unconvinced by a knock, cloth or breath on neck.

I've got laudanum.

The house has sharp, cold, air in it. My father died in this room.

It feels like I could successfully contact the dead.

By myself, I don't intend to converse because it's memories

 I've come to resurrect.

 

Acid rain

This feels very much like a B-side. Not actually saying anything in particular.

This is... Acid rain

I don't want to go out in this change of weather.

I'm not having any fun in it no more.

Watching you become acid rain.

Don't want to walk under it.

Step to not slip on its shadow,

spilled thickly on the ground.

I don't want to get soaked through.

Laid there.

Cutting sheets off from my body.

In a shower of wire barbs.

Things grow on us.

Rushes.

Thorns.

Trailing vines.

Day's eyes.

They weave and they push apart.

They save and they hurt the heart.

It's a shame how it went down.

I tired of whistling for it.

Out twisted lips, always sucked instead of blew.

When I came to see, the light was blue.

When I came to talk, the temperature was blue.

When I came to touch, the hand was blue

We don't talk about the cold weather no more.