Greens have gone,
From foggy view,
Days are dust,
In darkened hue,
Hours vast light,
Now, dwindles, few.
Thronging sepia, scarlet, yellows,
Waylay, the walkway, steps unsettled,
Slipt strides skulk their creptly echoes.
Harvest comes to croon its yearly cast,
Dyeing embered leaves on weary paths.
Yet, the songs seem to taste,
Of cindered yore,
Like, a belly full of fire gone to war.
The ash in its haste,
Falls fret and sore,
Whilst the Tinder and the Kindling’s,
Flames burst fore.
And, I sit in burning meadows,
Neath black cloud,
Raindrops flit, a yearning sizzle,
Steams;
A shroud.
Covering our footprints with,
Falls, dusty, wet,
Entwined with blazing leaves,
Beckoned syne,
Taut mind — affixes hazy memories,
Reckoned, pined,
For joy’s while, betwixt mazes free,
.
From echoed;
Autumntime.
© poormansdreams
poorman'sdreams 