The Season for Dying November 22, 2006
Gray skies
And the ink dries
Along the thin line separating
Autumn and winter.
The leaves are fallen
With the cessation of pollen,
No "v's" lining the skies.
Down on faded grass,
A chill is in the vast plains.
Snow can blanket your every pass,
Footprints are akin to blood stains.
There are no rabbits to use for stew,
Only thing that's there is a cold man's dew.
There are no rhymes or reasons for crying,
Just that this is the season for dying.
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