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Crispness of Autumn
Rough footsteps sifting through the crisp, torte leave's,
a grey matter of cloud's over head,
the crisp, crunch of the fresh fallen leave's,
it stills my beating heart,
that noise,
that simple sound,
I aghast.
The array of colors,
falling at their masses,
I want to skip, to run,
and hear the vital sounds beneath,
a laugh, a smile, a grin,
of what might have and could of been.
Copyright ©
Amanda Sullivan
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