His abyss-forged smile


    is the red


    of heated steel,


    dipped into summer''s heart.


    Withered leaves


    are offered as


    an empty tribute


    to the memory


    of his perennial silence.


    Gold and red his crown,


    a thin circlet


    resting on his brow,


    while silver eyes flash


    on an aged face,


    surveying the green world


    slowly dying


    beneath his gaze.


    We dream of the truth,


    diving upwards into an


    immutable silence,


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.imagined to be


    golden and unbroken,


    hoping we too


    could become


    the smallest piece


    of the silent immortal


    infinities.


    Grasp but lightly


    the spirit of Autumn,


    the truth of the gate,


    the road to the end,


    and fall


    to your knees before the


    passage of time.


    ''Bow down'' said he,


    ''I am the Autumn Lord,


    I am the fall of life,


    the beginning of all things


    ending.''


    And at his words


    the winds wailed,


    the trees shrunk


    and cast off their gowns,


    and the rains began to fall.


    He smiles to see his work


    and settles upon his throne


    of decaying wood and damp soil,


    watching in silence


    as the world brings their tribute:


    The Withering Season has begun.