His abyss-forged smile

is the red

of heated steel,

dipped into summer's heart.

Withered leaves

are offered as

an empty tribute

to the memory

of his perennial silence.

Gold and red his crown,

a thin circlet

resting on his brow,

while silver eyes flash

on an aged face,

surveying the green world

slowly dying

beneath his gaze.

We dream of the truth,

diving upwards into an

immutable silence,

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

imagined to be

golden and unbroken,

hoping we too

could become

the smallest piece

of the silent immortal

infinities.

Grasp but lightly

the spirit of Autumn,

the truth of the gate,

the road to the end,

and fall

to your knees before the

passage of time.

'Bow down' said he,

'I am the Autumn Lord,

I am the fall of life,

the beginning of all things

ending.'

And at his words

the winds wailed,

the trees shrunk

and cast off their gowns,

and the rains began to fall.

He smiles to see his work

and settles upon his throne

of decaying wood and damp soil,

watching in silence

as the world brings their tribute:

The Withering Season has begun.