I've turned new leaves
From Brown to Green,
Yellow to Red,
Dust to ash.

A week ago
Was quite warm,
Cold didn't bother
me very much.
Now I shiver,
Not alone without
But without within.

Guess I'm dying.

Not forever,
But for now.
Not a new death,
But a constant one.

That's waiting
I do suppose,
wanting things now.
Expressing fickle desires
Through prose.
But your needs now
Aren't the wants you'll
Have later.
Those are never ones
You plan for.