The leaves turn grey
as heartbreak rises over a troubled world.
The travails of flawed champions
would triumph if they could be so bold.

But the wind stings the tender cheek
even as the hand reaches for the heavens.
So this beleaguered soul plummets
from tarnished heights to these fallow gardens.

And so I watch over this gentle miscreant
with the world in his sights and his eyes closed.
Unwilling to pull aside the veil
afraid of turning his writhing heart cold.

The decision to rebel
is planted by lecherous hands
Left to cultivate in a mind
with far loftier plans.