Dying Season
“I like this time of year,” she said.
“I just like this time of year.
It’s all the wonderful colours
And that crisp scent in the air.
But just like the core of a bruise
These colours will fade and die.
But just for this split second,” she sighs,
“This time of year could make me cry.”
The golden hues of Autumn
They fortell a dying season
And she watches as the colours fade away.
It’s the wicked grasp of Winter
The loneliness – no rhyme or reason
And she wishes for a lighter kind of day.
Comments»
No comments yet — be the first.