Leaves turn from sleeping limbs,
Dropping down with flits and whirls.
Drifting past like forgotten memories,
Waiting to be remembered.
Such is the color and nature of autumn,
Who’s sheds living memories of fair times.
But in this moment darkened forms cut across such beauty,
Bearing between them what can only be death.
Two black boots cakes with mud rake cooling ground,
Others grunting between soft October breezes.
Scarlet drops unevenly upon golden tree coins,
One voice filled with guilt calls to the other.
Where can we bury this sack of shame,
Branded by our ruby fingerprints?
Leaves fall within the now silent space,
Drawing dull eyes upward to the naked trees.
Beneath the gold groans deep roots.
And that is what they do,
Evidence now laid to rest perchance to dream.
Who will ever know beneath these winking and spinning delights?
Naught but winter and his old cold bones.
When all is washed by his ivory hands,
With the truth be told.
Vengeance will be a skeleton
Ready to bare all will a knowing smile.
But who will still be there to know,
When passion and rage have long gone?