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Tatiana 30m
I run along the tops of trees
branches catch then drop me to my knees.
And I fall like leaves.
Spiraling down in Autumn's breeze.

I'm under attack in my own canopy.
What do I lack to keep scars from me?
I've fallen from heights I've grown used to.
I swallow my pride to avoid my doom.

I'm not like the pines; no longevity.
Like leaves I pile on the severity.
No levity is brought to my shaking knees.
When did Autumn become heavy?
©Tatiana
Gautham 23h
The third time today
it struck me
I ain't so naive.
A falling  feather
or
an autumn leaf
on a wuthering day
finding it's way,
sometimes carried away.
Soaring high
and  stooping
low  
in an act of let go.
Cox 1d
I wanted you to be my Autumn leaf.
Glittering gold hiding beneath.
Smiling at you, while getting cinnamon out of my teeth.
Sun warm,
cool breeze.
Hold my hand as we walk through crunchy leaves.
Cox 1d
You may be human, but you’re also a flower.
You hold so much power as you walk through April,
no avail.
Head risen.
Petals curtly tucked away.
A rush.
Heart closed.
Walking past the naked trees,
you shiver from the Autumn breeze.
You wait for Spring,
although knowing you haven’t met winter.
You think that this year your heart will freeze.
Cox 1d
Influx of leaves is all that my soul would need.
In this light,
waiting for the moon to appear in the dark night,
I lay amongst the golden ages leaves.
Autumn leaves
But not her leaves
Where she lies
Perennial

Beneath the ribs
She roots her trees
Deeper than the skies
And deeper yet
And deeper still
Than the living chains
Of freedom

Perched upon the windowsill
Her eyes tow wings
Whose whispers sing
The name of her reverie
Тръгва есента
Но не и нейните листа
Където е останала
Целогодишно

Изпод ребра
Вкоренила дърветата
По-дълбоко от небето
И все повече
И още по-...
От живите вериги
На свободата

Накацали перваза
Очите ѝ теглят крила
Чийто шепот напява
Името на нейния блян
Love can come in four different forms, almost akin to the seasons. It is fluid, and can intertwine with the other seasons, but never truly sits still. Love is never constant, and it fades as quickly as the cooling kiss of a summer breeze.

Springtime love is electric, a bitter hour in which it seems that this love is all that matters. It is all encompassing, and galvanises you into action. To feel Springtime love is to feel alive, after days and weeks and months of quiet. It is the cheer of a crowd, the press of bodies and the pounding in your ears. Springtime love is exciting and new, no matter how many springs you've seen before.

Summertime love is a lazy creek, trickling slowly across the sun scorched rocks of a small waterfall. It is the curling vapour drifting up from the surface of the water, and the sweet lemon in a glass of lemonade. Summertime love is warmth and honey, and its cloying grip is both calming water and slow-burning flame.

Autumnal love is passionate, sour and fast, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it flash of clarity among the Indian summers and oncoming storms. It is the rain bearing down on a windowpane, morose and ferocious, and it is breathtaking. Autumnal love seems like the truest of the four, the kind of pain that one who is in love craves like nothing else. Autumnal love is hopeless, beautiful fury.

Wintering love is not kind, or violent, or sweet. It is the salt on the foam of a crashing wave, a lukewarm coffee abandoned overnight, the eye of the storm you can never escape. Wintering love is acceptance, and sorrow, and blessed silence, and only in winter do the other seasons of love look like a lie. Wintering love is regret, and terrified of when spring arrives once more.

Every time you fall in love, you live the days from spring to winter. Some love-years last days, and others last centuries, ages, eons, until even the sands of time forget that snow or rain ever fell there. The beautiful thing about humans, I find, is that even after a thousand winters, a human can be willing to sacrifice everything for one more spring.
The skies lose their sunshine when he leaves.
The summer air transforms into the harshest autumn breeze.
And it’s cruel.
A phantom rains on our picnic cloth beside the bleeding trees.
And it’s cruel;
The crunched up flowers soak in the puddle swimming pool,
While I stir my cups of bitter teas.
To let him go, one is to be a fool—
So here I sit, crowned by all the shedding leaves,
With scars from remembering him under the bleeding trees—
Caught in the harshest autumn breeze.
I’ve written so much weird and abstract poetry lately that I don’t think is appropriate to share but here’s something safe. Do people even use this website anymore?
Shadow May 13
I want it to be autumn again
I want to watch as the leaves dance
I want to hear the black bird's song
I want to hear the howl of the wind
I want to lose myself

Lose myself in the autumn rain
Lose myself in the grey cloud
Lose myself in the depth of day


I want to it to be autumn
Again
death terrorizes the world
suffering strikes fear
far and wide
individuals attempt to restore
while questionable governments limit
people lay in captivity
the walls growing bigger
closer
the reality of death
suffering
all becomes too much to handle
a hero
a nurse
a loved one
welcomes comfort and restores

once we are through
conquerers
escaping the thick autumn-winter bush
spring will be on the horizon
death behind us
giving way to life ahead of us
death behind us
a defeated Covid-19
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