Rusty yellow foliage hang on limp branches,

Withered, wilted leaves are scattered on the lawn;

Like with drums beating, as an army marches,

Angry grey rain clouds across the sky are drawn.

Autumn is knocking at my door.

Melancholy sadness,

A visceral madness,

Descends on my poor heart once more.

Her ashes are sheltered from changing weather,

Her heart no longer touched by the autumn gloom,

But seasons don’t care much about whether

I enjoy rich colours, or muse about doom.

Autumn is knocking at my door.

Melancholy sadness,

A visceral madness,

Descends on my poor heart once more.

© P J Oszmann (October, 2008)

© Illustration: Digital Photo, with caption added in Photoshop (2008)