If Never To Write Again of Autumn
the chroma of autumn lingers
grounded on the hills
there's an emptiness within its soul
where the trees now stand bare
i sit on the branches a sullen life
colorless and naked the same
shivering in the echoes
of winds that know not my name
i fall within the shadows
cast of piercing skies
motionless, distorted
where faces have no eyes
i see me in reflections
of grounded crimson pools
rising in the cold of death
my ink is now bled dry
Copyright © Sandra Adams | Year Posted 2019
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