Gold foliage floats upon soft tendrils of wind and mist.
Once diaphanous beauties, springing with splendor, rejuvenation soon withers with time.
In Mournful Autumn, crinkly limbs collapse into accumulating piles.
Remnants of seasonal massacre- tears of trees no longer drift in serene skies but aimlessly waft, ripple on lakes that are watery graves.
Mocking smirks of pumpkins light the night as innocents soar only to soon plummet.
Rakes, true grave diggers, gather the dead to guide them into cold, black, suffocating hell.
Put out as garbage, hearses carry leaves away to uncertain ends.
