September

On the eve of the upcoming white

A melancholy sweeps the air,

Marking an end to the warmth abound-

An ode to the passing care.

The golden leaves fall gently down

The clock striking them mime,

And the wind now plays in it's

Naked playground, louder than the chime.

The shadows get longer faster

But not yet fully dispelled,

They come alive with the autumn wind

To whisper in the tongue of the dead.

The nine strangers in a closing ring

Up to the knee in the dead fallen leaves,

With their shadows catching up on them

To burn up in, till the lees.

Three men in grey watch on silently

From the sidelines, they do not step in,

Nor partake, for now, in this fire of the past

Waiting for their turn, in time frozen.