The golden hues scatter, they age, stepping softly into the twilight

The golden hues scatter, they age, stepping softly into the twilight, Velvet angels of summer falling, amid leaves seeking the calm of the earth, Gardens of grapes, unripened purple gems, with sweet blood untouched by sun, And I, the armorer of autumn, forging upon it, an armor of remembrance. Beneath the emerald vault, ephemeral stories breathe their last, In a twilight of oblivion where migratory thoughts seek shelter, And your gift, the quintessential fruit that has burst the day's attire, ripening just upon the slope, In my palm becomes art unfolding, the verses defining their purpose. A masterful lied flows through my veins, melting the forests of words, Transforming corrupted poetry into a creature of ice that moans beneath the sun's trails, Descend, angel, into this citadel of emotion and sign the pact, to be united, To taste, to feast on the sweetness of your evening, under the cloak of stars of the anonymous night. Pale wings, torn by longing, dissolve their song in the pain of the silence that follows, Time, harsh judge, stretches forth its edict, designates my sentence, With your aroma, your autumnal flush of pulp, with an undefined fleshly scent, In the celebration of falling fruits, I bedeck my condemnation in ecstasy. I will pluck you, a perpetual harvest in the chamber of my thoughts, From you, I receive autumn, as an invitation into the palace where nectar is king, In nights when constellations, one by one, slowly dim their lights, Signing the sky of night, gliding across your body, weaving the ineffable magic of poetry.