Confluence

Blanket of air, Azuring violet amidst grey, A painter's palette! Dense foamy clouds, Laced with silvery shine, Wrath of fire's eyes. Deciduous trees, Red greening to brown, Painter's lost paintbrushes. Autumnal she is, For these are her attributes, Serene appearance BUT! Enlocked in her eyes, The ire of autumn, Rage, She is fire. Alas! The winter, Will come and reduce her, Cold, burnt soul. For she exists, In the moonless nights of men, Winter, the MAN. She will return, With her vengeance cold, Burnt though, un-burnt. The winter is Brawny, Autumn is a second's play, She lost! Battle of her existence. Beautiful and young she may appear, Old and cold she is. The winter eats her, Yet she dies to breathe life into him, Dead is her soul, Within the mortal beauty, She is kissed by the Winter, To death! Yet she haunts, With the veiled autmnal beauty of hers, That Winter can't kill her soul