Long have walked these tattered feet,
In search of feathered bed to sleep,
And still on silent room they creep,
To cower in it’s shadow.
How the June bugs sing their song,
Although the summer’s come and gone,
And welcomes Fall to rush upon,
And cover them in shadow.
Still the winds will claim their crown,
As Autumn fails to hold her ground,
And scampers back with ne’er a sound,
Colluding with this shadow.

And the forests ache,
In the darkness.

Fevered streets howl,
Like the plague.

Foggy hollows weep,
And the echo sleeps,
To be burried soon,
In the mire.

Just as no hand can stay the Winter,
There is no heart too hard to break.
So, I should halve my lamentation,
And buy a better coat.

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