The Season

The season of the year that I may behold
when rusty yellow leaves, wrinkled and patched hang
upon the trees that dance to the wind’s beat
when dusty red earth, ghosted and dumped sprang
with the dirt that swirl to the wind’s beat and
noiseless noise, lined with the melodious birds’ sound
Wide Awake, I behold the dawn of a new day
As the sun rise far East and set at the West
Chasing the shadows and blacks of the Night
Only but death’s twin, sending it to rest
I can but see the blazing of such a fire
That extinguishes with youth’s remains
On his deathbed where it gave up
Destroyed by that which he cherishes
That which could be described as the power of love
And to perish leaving it behind

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