The woeful moans of autumn show that love did leave us long ago.
Two souls defined by the kind of conceit
held together by passion's sweet summer heat.
Blossomed between each beautiful bloom,
they did nothing but consume;
until all that was left of the love that they lost
was frozen under winter's weary frost.
Blanketed under snow so white,
ready to start things over; to make things right.
The woeful moans of autumn show
that love did leave us
long ago.