Fallen leaves fly in the wind's icy sigh,
Feathered limbs shiver, dancing leaves quiver,
The silvery sun's eye will softly cry,
Ripples, delivering life to the river.
But look, with the dusk, in burnt orange clad,
The clock's hands choke me, a coward appears.
Gone is the safety and calmness I had.
I forgot, courage is in spite of fear.
The mean fever of time, not time enough,
That with the winter winds, I waste away.
I cut away love, some leftover slough, but
in another life, old love, I would stay.
If this is sin, a seed of avarice sown,
Then mark me among the devil's own.