Autumn is the season of colourful foliage and chilly weather but I think most of all it is nature’s greatest metaphor. Though leaves shall soon die and be crushed under foot, they nonetheless hold on to their array of shades and hues, until they can no longer just as we should in our most trying times.
Like autumn leaves, my thoughts
are stripped of their connect
to centrality, as a branch rots
without foliage, my mind suffers
the same disconcertion, clots
with terrible, terrible loss.
These thoughts are left to fend,
feed and suffocate like gold-plated
leaves left to die, trying to mend
in a pile of crumbled dust. The gold
withers and then comes the end,
with it there is finality. No more, no less.