Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
bella 4d
She stands like a tree in autumn’s embrace, Golden leaves falling, shattered in grace.
Each broken piece catches the light, A quiet beauty, fragile but bright.

Yet weren’t they lovelier when they were whole? Before the cold air whispered its toll?
A breath of frost, sharp and unkind,
The ghost of her past still trailing behind.

The river hums with a story untold, Its waters deep, relentless, cold.
It sings of wounds she hides so well,
A silent storm, a private hell.

She has friends, or so she claims, Yet loneliness calls her by name.
Her silence lingers, soft but strong,
Like autumn days, both short and long.

But when the river’s wind takes flight, Rustling leaves in the dead of night,
Her soul, so quiet, starts to scream—
A soundless echo, lost in a dream.

She was never meant for autumn’s sorrow, She was meant for spring, for a brighter tomorrow.
Through monochrome skies
I watch the
stippled
Leaves of auburn
rot.
as time turns back
to that one autumn,
We parted through cooling ashes
leaving my heart's blood
to fall as red leaves
I remember reading a poem that had this beautiful scene, watching red leaves fall from a tree, like your heart was bleeding.
Jhay 6d
Our cozy autumn doesn’t feel the same,
the leaves have rotted to bitter grays.
The smell of tea drowned by summers final rain.

Your subtle rage everytime you turn that page gives me goosebumps.

I can see it on your face, an icy glare
and winter's grace.

pumpkins lost in the haze, we could be up to nothing sipping lovely grey.

Embers burning off loose heat and faith.
Tender and estranged our feelings should be explained…

something, something, and what to say.
The gentle breeze on our slow decay,
maybe autumn's not so strange.
Vianne Lior Feb 25
Pith clots mid-autumn,
tongue-laced rubies slit the hush,
juice wails—fermented.

Vianne Lior Feb 9
I watched you leave slow
like autumn forgetting leaves,
bare, I stood in frost.
Maria Feb 4
I want to be your scarf,
So soft and mohair,
To warm you in snowfalls
And even in rainy autumn.

I will embrace your neck
Like a mother cradles her child.
I’ll save the warmth for you.
Put on the scarf, be so kind.

I want to be your scarf.
Oh, don’t wear scarfs? Well now,
If I can’t softly warm you,
I’ll be your skin somehow.
neth jones Jan 29
arthritis tippled wooden relief    plugged in a bed of mud
the leaves that decay to its side                                   
                          comp­liment the carved ones that feather the face
but it is creaked   crevice and sinuous  
  a kind crumpled face  or maybe a stern  yet approving  parent mask
two seasons of weathering                                                    
  ­                            withered   saturated and withered again      
this self unearthing
worth moulded from
the decaying green man
reapplying  for a creative birth
for a visit  on the Autumn hearth
filling in its ****** details     with broken and discarded
school yard pencils   scudded over litter  and mud
soon to be worshiped again...
would settle for a respectful gift        from a child

for all his wonders in spring                                            
              ­                  he has envied the witness of harvest
but attention goes to other gods

he pouts  out of season     for no one here  greets him
Madeon Jan 23
As well as the writer’s balcony
Dressed in the ruins of summer,
Autumn slides,
Crowding at the edges of wakefulness.
The still undiscovered adventure,
Sadness being beautiful.
Maria Jan 18
I’m painting my love in autumn colors.
I’m painting the flame of leaves underfoot,
The greyish sky, rainy and foggy.
The crying love is a natural mood.

Boarded benches are in the park
Under the shade of naked trees.
And fog is ahead, lots of fog.
My love is hidden in it indeed.

Behind the fog my love is flowing
Inexorably, irrevocably like a water.
It’s running off to nowhere away,
Without a trace forever in autumn.
Next page