Leaves.

The boldest, the coldest,
Just hold it right just,
Here, blow the gold dust,
From the leaves in your mind, find,
A branch bereaved of time,
Bare and extended, the arc of a fine,
Wine, aligned with age from the page,
Courageous heartbeats will save,
Any grave or, flavour, that’s made or,
Intertwined, behind the perfect refined,
Unrequited and blind,
Underlined points to be made and shade,
The colours and shadow,
The valour, the shallow, the candor and hallowed,
Words that we use, to heal our bruise,
To seal our nuance and soothe,
A cobwebbed and dusty, process that must be, uncluttered and trusty, farewell to the rusty,
Coloured leaves in our minds.