Resembling my soul,
November leaves seem exhausted,
slumbering under sleeping trees,
gently rustling in the breeze.
Selfish skies are covered in grey clouds,
but the angst in the air remains stale.
It's been fourteen years,
yet his ghost still appears in the mist,
remaining silent, as death never speaks,
but I've become content without answers.
In the drizzle of disappointment,
I'm fading away without the rain.
There...
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