Raven hair entangles his sins,
and pierces the rose,
darkness pours freely.
The petals of demise taken in the chilling breeze
A drunken groom wonders aimlessly in the chill after Autumn,
the darkness to bright to squint against.
It’s as though he’s living a glass half full.
His blood is too much for her.
His crimson colours rain before him, unable to catch it all,
he’s a leaf shriveled in the late of Autumn and
winter’s overflow.
He’s laced in his raveled past.
He knows his loathing won’t last.
Though his temple crumbles and shatters,
it’s what’s untainted by his pain.
So he stays.
If his requiem could survive,
Autumn would spill into a glass tinted the
yellows and greens of humid summer.
Yet he holds summer’s hand,
keeping her afloat.
He’ll leave a yellow tulip,
and when it does bleed out,
the leaves will turn red.
The children drink the rose bleak dry,
simple youth just left to die.
How much is left for her and I?
A red tear falls in winter’s white.
Time goes on, leaving the seasons to cry.
Her hand helps him up again,
As her glass shards deepen.
Her raven hair a storm cloud around her head,
Autumn, remember who he was.
He’ll leave his foot prints in the snow,
for this is all they know.
With each returning sunset,
Autumn floats toward him
She overflows as winter suffocates.
His yellow tulip is still in spring,
He knows that’s it’s dying
soon Autumn will ring.
He promised that he’s kept her leaf,
As he wonders busy streets.
He twiddles his thumbs,
Praying for the seasons to last,
In his loathsome past.
Soon,
Autumn got shorter
and winter’s bite got longer.
Farewell Autumn season,
it was nice to meet you,
but you will die soon.
He’ll carry all the sin and strife,
as spring will surely come to bite.
He just can’t seem to let you last
the present is his future’s past.
The yellow tulip has dried
he watches it cry,
as he dries his own eyes.
one day he will surely be
extracted from your memories.
If it’s only for today,
his requiem shall decay.
In a town without him,
Autumn would fill to the brim.
His loneliness would feast alone.
The streets would be free of his foot steps.
He wouldn’t exist.
His life he’d give
so that Autumn could live.
It’s okay
do not grieve
the dark rose that has been drained bleak,
fading from reality.
