My hours are ending,
My days numbered,
Life pours out,
Of my leaves, dying,
Discoloured from the
Days of an eternal Summer,

Wind bellows and blasts,
As it always has, over
Branches and bark and
Whistles thinly through my
Veins, drenched in their
Own green blood,

I have become the
Season of death, the
Reminder and cue of
A quarter-year of
Dying, without grace
Without hope,

Fellow cowards loom over me,
Blind as they like,
No reminder, not one,
But I have accepted my fate,
Long after theirs has begun.