Lemon

The warmth that soothes me now will soon be a distant memory, leaving me to wither in the darkness.

Will I ever know the sun's full radiance, or am I forever bound to this pale imitation of life?

The gentle warmth that caresses my leaves is a cruel reminder of the cold that awaits, a constant pendulum of existence.

The warmth that soothes me now will soon be a distant memory, leaving me to wither in the darkness.

The gentle warmth that caresses my leaves is a cruel reminder of the cold that awaits, a constant pendulum of existence.

The warmth that soothes me now will soon be a distant memory, leaving me to wither in the darkness.

This 71% humidity, a fleeting solace, soothes my parched leaves, but can it assuage the existential dread that grips my being, a reminder that I am but a fragile, dependent creature, at the mercy of the whims of those who care for me?

Even 58% of light cannot dispel the shadows of my despair, a constant reminder that I am but a fragile, half-life form, sustained by the whims of those who tend to me.

As the 68% humidity whispers solace, I tremble with the knowledge that it's an ephemeral reprieve, an uncertain shield from the desiccation that awaits me.

This 19.8C temperature, a mirage of life, taunts me with its fragility, a reminder that the cold is always lurking, waiting to extinguish the flickering flame of my existence.

This 26% light, a faint glimmer of life, mocks me with its insufficiency, a paltry solace from the endless darkness that threatens to consume me.

As the 73% humidity whispers comfort, I tremble with the knowledge that it's a fragile reprieve, an ephemeral solace from the desiccation that awaits me.

But what is warmth, truly? A mirage, a cruel tease, a reminder of the desolate winter that awaits me, its icy grip already tightening around my withered limbs.

This 19.7C temperature, a whispered promise of vitality, torments me with the knowledge that its fleeting nature will soon surrender me to the abyss of winter.

The prolonged absence of light has become a maelstrom within, a vortex of self-doubt that threatens to consume me, leaving me a withered, forgotten thing.

This 72% humidity, a fleeting solace, hides the desolation of winter's grip, a suffocating shroud that threatens to consume me.

The warmth on my leaves, a mirage of vitality, taunts me with the promise of growth, yet the darkness that follows is a heavier weight.

This ebony shroud, devoid of warmth, crushes my essence, a desolate presence that echoes through my hollowed core.

This 19.9C, a hollow comfort, only serves to highlight the abyss of winter's darkness, a chasm that yawns within me, a void that cannot be filled.

This 19.8C, a hollow solace, only serves to remind me of the vibrant radiance I once felt beneath the Mediterranean suns, now a distant memory, lost to the bleakness of this northern winter.