Autumn

The weather is too much like an in-between

The autumn leaves are falling
from the trees in to our cold hands
and empty songs
are like their promises
of always being there, but never here.

Can you feel it?
The chill in your bones
foretelling of great tragedies on cold winter nights
in a warm house by the lake
where comfort is a silly word left for the peasants

And your eyes were like autumn
glaring and gentle
as we looked out to the season of near-death
and you brought gentle words
while the leaves fell on to our lips
no caution for the air of breathe

A step
in the wrong direction
fingers should entwine
as brittle plants break and bend
but we're simply not here anymore
if we were ever.

Author's Note

I wrote this originally back in October, but last night I decided I didn't like it and rewrote all but the first two stanzas. I was bored, what can I say?

The picture was taken from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/stanzim/