When the autumn days fall
In close disposition
The trees loom on tall
But lose all their leaves.
A stillness in my bones
Ready for the onslaught
Of warm shades and tones
Shriveling to grey.
There is an innocence
Abhorred by our nature
Finish the cycle
We're better unloved.
The faceless can but hide
In the long drawn-out nights
Anonymity tries
To soften our fall.
YOU ARE READING
Petrichor
PoetryWe grow old eventually {here are the waking thoughts that consume me}
