We Are Like Autumn Poem by Iohannes Silvaticus

We are like autumn.
The dry crisp brown leaves,
Like old memories.
The dry earthy smell like Grandma's place,
Old and full of approaching death.
We cannot say all is brown.
The hints of red remain,
Like our dying passions.
Should the autumn wind blow,
To chill my bone,
Let me remember:
This is not as icy
As my empty soul.
Should I feel cold,
Cover me with a blanket of past romances.
Not that warm as before,
But to die with a smile would suffice.
The trees aren't dead,
They are sleeping, waiting for spring.
Like how I am about to sleep.
But there is no spring for me.
It is quiet like a long wait
For virgin sheets of white
To tuck me into my last bed.