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,

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  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.