Between trees,
Branches,
Leaves-
Glimpses of light.
Autumn,
The fresh breath
Of death,
Decay- Summer
Leaves
Us
With a bittersweet
Aftertaste. Yet
The cold, awakens
Us anew.
Can you
Stop these changes?
Or
With a gentle smile
Will you, like the others,
Just leave?
YOU ARE READING
Petrichor
PoetryWe grow old eventually {here are the waking thoughts that consume me}
