The Fall
I think that I will be an autumn leaf
In dying. I will turn to blowing red
And glowing amber. Yellow’s autumn grief
Will sublimate me like a glistening dread.
October skies of vivifying blue
And indigo November afternoons
Will only serve to polish up the coup
Of death. Contrasting hues will be cocoons
For transmigration. Perfect maple sap
Will wait till corpse is sure. A white-ish spring
Grows slightly warmer. Friends begin to tap
The memories then. Oh, Death, where is thy sting?
..All this is very prettified with rhyme
….But I will be reducing down to slime.