Autumn came in multicolors last year,
Fiery reds and burnished oranges
Bright yellows and rusty greens,
Painted leaves that floated
From barren branches
And rested lightly on the sleeping grass
The musty smell of dying things
So particular to autumn
Lingered in the air.
Death comes spectacularly
Proudly, in Autumn.
'This is not Death 'I thought
Death is the sand of your lifes hourglass,
Spilling grain by ever decreasing grain
Onto the scales of Death'
Autumn is the time of sleeping
The dawn of a new beginning.
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Comments about this poem (Autumn by Joseph Enright )
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