where the writers are
Autumn Queen


Mother with her precious gold

Quivering in her feeble age,

Quietly waits on her Death bed

Dreaming dreams that make her cry,

Listening to the icy winds rush by.

At the top of a frozen hill

Frigid hands are rushing

Through her twisted hair.

She’s old and yet more golden

Than a seasoned summer pear

Still Clinging to the bough,

Waiting for a final solar flare.

Hoar Frost mutely stalks,

Claiming Rose’s round hips,

Raping with bitter force,

Ravaging and waging remorse;

Her furrowed belly must bear

The cold kiss of Despair.

Winter’s militia appears

Like a dream; mysteriously,

White snowflakes reel around

Casting a net of iridescent Pearl

Illuminating tamaracks and dry grass,

Trembling in a whirl of leaflessness.

 

Lending emptiness to the scene,

Poplars bow and bare themselves

Not seeming to care whose

Faded clothes they wear.

Night falls and Nature’s heart succumbs.

Her sequined clothes and jewels

Are crudely tumbled on her bed,

Like leaves scattered on the ground.

Death’s White Knights settled on her

Like thieves not making a sound,

As they seized her final breath

And danced upon her barren mound.

 

 

(copyright protected)

 

Keywords: