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.
