September She Became

I didn’t ask for August,
still she came.
She whispered through the windows of my dreams
to veil her name.
Seducing every evening in the sky,
fading in vain,
she sings her humid song
blinding my lingering disdain.

Although I wept in August,
still she sang.
Her lullaby intoxicates my soul
in every way,
convincing all the colors of the night
into her shade
and me from all my reasons
to ignore her subtle sway.

I took August for granted,
still I lay.
Listening to her saturated song
drowning my rain,
she softly trickled off into
another’s navy grey
and when I found myself in mourn for her,
September she became.