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3 33%
4 44%
2 22%
Voters: 9.
Autumns trees last words

A shadow, a season past, the sound of silence rippling waters,
the banks, the scandal, a lapse of love in the face of lust,
you cannot contain the waves and ways that emotion permeates us all.
So when the birds murmur from the boughs,
and the new wave of raindrops stutter "why me" at the moment of impact,
you can hear our song again,
our song is being played.
So why don't you sing?
I can't hear you singing?
Why won't you sing?!

For the brambles and the creepers that watch our destined downfall
begin to interlace, support and crush what little love we never had,
I’m left loving the beauty around me, and compared, I cannot compete.
I guess this moment must be the centre of the storm,
while this jade tornado is dying all around is affected by the calm;
"don’t come out of your safe-houses,
the relapse is merely a ploy to lull you into a sense of security"
And so you remain, you remain in a state of overwhelming contrast to beauty,
not special, not unique, another ochre bough, just another ripple,
just another bank to halt our poetry in motion that never was.

Poetry is fake; every word is a ripple going to waste on the borders of the page,
and the lips of the speaker, and the lobes of the listener.
Every branch is an arm undressed by autumn.
So sing, for this is the last time you'll ever be granted the virtue of chance.
Or I’ll overlook you every time nature skips a beat for me,
like you never did,
just so I can feel as though I am part of something,
like we never were.


I once knew a girl named autumn.
We fell in love as easily as the leaves of a tree in fall.
We rolled in the grass for hours staining our jeans.
Living our dreams.
Thoughts of not being with eachother never once crossed our minds.
But that all changed with one night filled with bottles of wine.
It was ten o'clock on the last day of fall.
Our clothes dropped as easily as leaves of a tree in autumn.
The night left us hungover wondering what happened.
Things changed and just as easily as we fell in love, we fell out.


Spectors stand, heavy breathing, misty eyed,
with cloaks stained, tears turned to frost,
and slip through gravestones,
as leaves turn to flame.
They've come out to see
this man hanged.
Golden hair settles like a crown,
as he swings in front of the leaves,
appearing as the emperor
lynched, while Rome burns to the ground.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.