lords great fix,
falling upon the ground,
I will keep hounding,
the falling leaves swirling,
round in circles,
like a hurricane,
they are sure not plain.
Veins pretruding through the array of autumnal colors,
forget your pink and purple pastels,
it's your browns, yellows, and reds,
forlorn above our heads,
so sharp could cut like a pin prick to the paper skin,
I could never forgive,
or mourn or lose,
this beautiful, radiant, and cut throat season.