Oh, the summer's end, how it leaves like the last breaths of a man, slipping from this world. Boom. Boom. The last heartbeats. Silence, and life is gone. Just so is the end of the summer.
The summer is like a plume of smoke. One moment it is here, and the next, it is but an intangible memory.
It is a thrashing force, time. It wreaks havoc, and steals all that is dear. Yet that is the beauty of it. Like a thousand roses, the beauty is underlain by pervasive thorns.
It is not best to dwell on such thoughts, and it is much better to remember the ecstasies of the summer which have been laid to rest, like a suffering dog. Slowly, painlessly, yet absolute.
Summer is like life. You love it while it lasts, and mourn when it is gone.