The Flames of Autumn

A Poem by Noir Crescent

Hands of the mother
Growing bare,
If you hear the crisp,
You'll know it's here.

It's time to hide,
It's time to rest,
It's finally Autumn.

Where smokes tower
And houses are filled,
Is where laughter can be heard
As great aroma
Takes shivers to a different place.

He and she
Make amends
To love and more
From memories it lies.
Even in the covers
A beauty of life
Is made bright.