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All That Is Left MAG
The leaves slowly turning color.
Counting off the minutes,
the seconds,
the moments lost.
Each hue a reminder that
I
am never who I once was.
Each left
rolls on the wind and settles
on the parched forest floor;
crumbling at death's faint touch.
Its voice an echo
I
can now hear.
Summer's brilliance in death.
Knowing this
I
carry on into shorter days
a different man.
Remembering always
August.
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This article has 2 comments.
meilindusk423 SILVER said...
on Feb. 26 2010 at 7:36 pm
Beautiful!
I love the ending!
Good rhythm too!
I love the ending!
Good rhythm too!
4 articles 0 photos 9 comments
Favorite Quote:
Love doesn't have a rhyme or reason, time or place, love just happens.