The leaves are bronzing over, as umber
Shafts of the Autumn’s sun, tent-
like, shade folly’s of a forced mortal year.
Of life’s rich liquor; mulched rot, a blotched smear
On her flawed, lawless cycle of some transient
Phase of decay. A shining veneer
On a crafted, sharply piercing, dream spear.
Grinding to the obsequious pause; lanced
Through Nature’s grim drab soul; an empty tear
From her nascent eyes drench, with a clear
Banality, the children of a spent
Future with a haggard, wasted fear.