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1 17%
1 17%
4 67%
Voters: 6.
A quiet downhearted November morning

We walk across the burial grounds while dark clouds gently weep
a dead tree grieves his fallen leaves, and stands in contrast
with the iridescent, saturated colours of the chrysanthemums.
The carved lettering on an ancient, eroded tombstone reads:
"Farewell, fair cruelty; Vita mutatur, non tollitur."

But in which manner has life changed? "Un idea perplexi na":
the idea is strange to us; how can we live on after we’ve died?
Shall our souls turn into a wandering spirit, a restless shade;
Or shall our exanimate body perish in the hallowed ground?
We only know that death is sure, but its hour is unknown..


Clinging to the tree they shake,
The breeze is bleak, and makes them ache.
Their final day is coming soon.
They bravely turn to face the cold,
Slowly turning red and gold,
Beneath the harvest moon

The needles left
All point and laugh,
“All that beauty, such a shame”
But deep inside,
They wish they’d died,
In that final burst of flame.

Rainbow Paper Penny Saver

Born another stain into
the ignorance of Summer's bliss,
I always find myself lapsing behind.
As fallen leaves mute the echoes
of the sinking and sunken hearts
that rid the villages of all their kids,
driving them from their businesses
of tree-house monopolies and
cardboard cars, then dropping
them into scholastic arms.
A buck for a bushel sends you
straight to the top. That's
the lesson Autumn brings,
and that's the hope
that drives us all.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.