Time is the falling of leaves on a cool autumn day;
colored leaves that taste of cotton candy
and melt in your mouth.
Time looks like my grandfather's snowy, white beard,
and feels like his crisp dress shirts.
It sounds like a cough in the middle of the night,
and tastes of the NyQuil used to soothe it.
His distinctly "old man cologne" wafts through Time
and to the front of my mind.
But Death is cold. . .
Even colder than Time.
Maybe Time is not the falling of leaves,
but the emptying of an old service revolver.