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Dead Leaves

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  • Dead Leaves

    The world is dying,
    small corpses fall.
    The skies blow red,
    cold turns them all.
    A silent secret,
    hot remorse一
    orange and gold,
    that crispy corpse.

    Whistles hum
    a last goodbye;
    wind while raving
    comes to fly.
    Cold it comes
    but welcome beat,
    winter’s lost
    in this soft heat.

  • #2
    The leaves may die but this poem radiates. A great depiction of the seasonal turn. Nice, Darth!

    Comment


    • Darthvader
      Darthvader commented
      Editing a comment
      Thanks so much, Bobby!

  • #3
    I agree with Bobby, Darth. Wonderfully pictured.

    Comment


    • Darthvader
      Darthvader commented
      Editing a comment
      That means a lot, AtL, thank you

  • #4
    Richly imagined and crisply worded, Darthvader. Really lovely!

    Comment


    • Darthvader
      Darthvader commented
      Editing a comment
      Thanks so much, grant!!
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