In Autumn- leaves fail …
They drift away
They fall and break
And whisper ourselves apart-
And become the grains of Winter-
The assumption that gray is not a color becomes a narcotic slumber that forgives the advice from a younger heart-
And urges forward- and onward- and hints that once upon a time- we could do anything we wanted- but forgot how-
The essence of What We Were- has become a tide of water that we dare not cross… Lest we embrace moisture that was meant for dreamers and adventurers-that are bold and true to heart-
Are we of such a nature- ?
Does the heart follow the flagrant soul- or does it lay sterile in a white room?
To become quiet- Granite- unrealized…
A Far away- beat- that only pulses when time meets expectation’s end?
Or does the paint peel and curl from the canopy of the art itself?
Do the shells that flake away- reveal more of us- then the silhouette that once was us?
The softening clouds that collide with our memories- Will they rage on to become a fury of dreams unrealized- … and ultimately a thunderstorm of hope?
A painted sky that begs- the next move- in a chess-match for the soul that we believe we have- ?
Delivering a song of color that then spurs a challenge to better what we have become- and fell our walls-
We ourselves shall fall to winter-
And become trees without bark….