autumn leaves

do not sing serenades; those bitter tongued fiends only hiss paced lies,

and in my mouth, I taste a biting sharp cut. They left false tales I learnt to love.

And it was only as minerals, clear, ran down my face did I realise the meaning

behind every single note they played, beautiful at first, you see me asking,

I'm wondering why they turned to dust on the stave, a collision of something -

I was so sure it was perfect, and soon they slaughtered all ideas, all pretty fields,

flowers, fresh and no more can I wait for a new leaf to turn; burnt they fall,

crumbling away, ash scent chokes the breath.