Strange that, in this season of slow death
When ripeness over-blooms into decay,
I should feel a calm, an ease of breath
That proves elusive of a summer’s day.
A surer beauty rests in autumn’s gold,
For one whose golden hair has long gone gray,
Than profligate summer’s verdure can enfold,
Or perfumed promises of spring convey.
Autumn is a season of repose,
Reflection on what was and might have been,
Acceptance of what is at cycle’s close -
Entropic, certain winter, sovereign.
All enterprise exhausted, naught remains
Save yielding to the grasp of golden chains.
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Author:
Rshafran (
Offline) - Published: June 6th, 2017 09:05
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 29
Offline)
Comments2
Very good write. Welcome to MPS.
Well done; rich in diction, rhyme, and meter.
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