I recall how autumn’s fall
Of leaves across my path
Would make me stop and take a pause
To reflect upon my past
Woes so small and regrets so tall
Trailed me through the years
I never thought that I would face
This moment among these tears
But childhood plays such tender tricks
Upon your delicate mind
You push each grain within your pain
Back to more tender times
We would press those memories yet
To another place and time
To hide those lies within to cry
So silent without crime
But now the price of making these
So hidden in our lives
Brings us to the place we know
Where terror only hides.
What would this mean if you were the author?