Autumn.

They are scattered all over my path as flower pedals for a returning emperor. But now return is written here. But the end. A end of one year. And even if the sweet smell of decomposing tells a tail of one end making way for new beginnings. The end is all there is to see. A cold breeze that chills not only the bones but touches the heart. The loss is all there is to see. What we gain is too far away. Too distant to touch. But it is fine. It makes me the emperor of nothing. And as I parade through my decomposing halls I dream of what not could be. My memories and hopes falls with the leaves to decorate the ground.