Looking out the windows as if they were eyes
in a time weathered face
The sky is as gray as slate
and cold as stone
The trees are molting their leaves
wind blown piles of dead dying
This is one time of the year that
the outside reflects what is inside
How memories and emotions fall forming
wind blown piles of dead and dying
The sun slowly sinking brings a deeper
darkness to the sky
As the sun closes its eyes
to me
Like outside the is less life to see
and within it grows colder and darker
The cycles of the sun and the seasons
we know all too well
The cycle of the sun and seasons within me
are yet to be discerned
Until such time unto the cold and dark
I am interred
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