Poetry Forum

Tundra8535 - all messages by user

11/30/2021 11:26:36 AM
Critique my poem please	I'm not scared of harsh language. Be genuine please. November Woods There's crimson on the trees, And gold against the blue. Clouds float across the sky, Above the colored roof. The green still hangs on pines, Though winter pulls leaves down. Trample them, stamp on them, Walking about the town. The winter hinted air, And vibrant foliage, Makes me look in wonder, At what's on forest's edge: The leaves are the color, Of the flame deep within. Burning through the forest, Of trees with sorrel skin. The lovely leaves linger, Only for a while. Lasting only as long, As my little smiles. The light shines down on them, And me as well, it seems, Making our colors true, As though it were a dream. The amber leaves fall down, Around me as I walk. They're forced to decompose. Their beauty makes them rot. And rot they will slowly, Beneath their sires old, And feed them by their roots, Now hither is the cold. But leaves will spring anew, In many, many days. I loathe for them to go, And loathe for their delays. Though, I know they will return, And paint the skies again, With their carmine fires, And flaxen gold lament.
pages: 1

11/30/2021 11:26:36 AM

I'm not scared of harsh language. Be genuine please.

November Woods

There's crimson on the trees,

And gold against the blue.

Clouds float across the sky,

Above the colored roof.

The green still hangs on pines,

Though winter pulls leaves down.

Trample them, stamp on them,

Walking about the town.

The winter hinted air,

And vibrant foliage,

Makes me look in wonder,

At what's on forest's edge:

The leaves are the color,

Of the flame deep within.

Burning through the forest,

Of trees with sorrel skin.

The lovely leaves linger,

Only for a while.

Lasting only as long,

As my little smiles.

The light shines down on them,

And me as well, it seems,

Making our colors true,

As though it were a dream.

The amber leaves fall down,

Around me as I walk.

They're forced to decompose.

Their beauty makes them rot.

And rot they will slowly,

Beneath their sires old,

And feed them by their roots,

Now hither is the cold.

But leaves will spring anew,

In many, many days.

I loathe for them to go,

And loathe for their delays.

Though,

I know they will return,

And paint the skies again,

With their carmine fires,

And flaxen gold lament.

pages: 1