I’ve left behind
Meaningless words
Thinking somehow
That would
Fulfill me,

A text of scripts
Holding dialogues
Only heard
By few
Who might read –

As landscapes change
Out this window
Where trees
Turn colors
Like fire,

Watching fall
Grow grim
While enjoying
Those branches
Burnt from decay

In ironic twists
Without choice
Much how age
Squanders beauty

Such youngsters speak
Thinking poems
Could keep them
At best.

That dream
Has long been deceased
And old men
Hearing nothing

But empty breath
Getting colder
Since seasons
Can reflect

These passing days
Bearing chills
Each autumn
Are just phrases

When talking winds
Bring their winter
Losing hope
Through voice
All the same.

  • J. Pigno

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