Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A

He
Sitting on a log,
The fog that drifts, slowly as the moon,
Whispers of owels; ruffles of branches 
Crimson;orange and yellow;
Following a steady beat,
Overhang, hulting what little light,
A cold crisp in the air,
Biteing at his ears,
The fog stopped.
Lady Autumn, in a outfit of warmth,
Carrying a cold, dence air
Her lips red as blood,
Spoke in his ear; a soft voice, 
"A breeze; it comes my darling.~"
And vanished, into a violent fog.