Autumn is on the wind, the spirts
Of the sky have flown south, for
Winters breath has begun to bite. In
The cool damp air I can smell them,
The dying leaves, breezing ever
So gently past my feet, blown by
The reaping wind in rote. Yet,
Not one weeps for their passing.

It is only I who weeps for I know
The secret they keep hidden,
Cinched in amber and lurid hues.
I watch them as drift and sway,
Tumbling over one another to
their final resting place to die
forgotten. Each falling leaf,
A grain of sand, a second, hour,
Another moment closer to the
Cessation of our existence

The fleeing multitudes to
Many to hold on to.