Autumn,
Only beauty weaves,
Artist colors,
Red, Green, Gold,
Nature paints,
With brushes bold!
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Made out of clay,
Situations,We all melt away,Weakly but bravely,Love,Is just that way.
Somebody you know,
Doesn’t care if we All croak,Truth distorted and well chokedDon’t complain when we’re all brokeWe ourselves have sunk our boat!
It’s best to love no one,
It’s getting up tomorrow,To a silence that chokes you so well,And there’s nothing more to do or tell.
Moods go up and down,
Poets are strange people,Not too good to have around.
Do birds sing in the Autumn,
Do lovers cry in Autumn,For fear of losing All?Why is this Season favored,By poets and by song?Is it because they know and feel,That Life will be reborn?Or because they sadly hearLife’s melancholy song?