The yellow leaves of Summer,
Falling through the air,
Blown by the late Summer breeze,
Running before Autumn
Around the corner.
Such is the time in life,
Where finding truth
And beauty so late coming,
That the present
Is held by the past,
And the future
Seems no less likely,
To be different
Than today.
So while there is beauty,
To be seen and felt and known,
So too, is there,
That truth tells nothing
But what is so,
And truth must be accepted,
However painful.
Even Hope,
Cannot be expected
To stop the coming Autumn
And the falling of leaves,
So that Winter's hush
Will not settle in to hold
A weary Heart's
Private pain.
(9.11.7 Inner Thoughts)
(9.10.7
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