One with the Autumn

He became one with the autumn;

His face flushed shades of vibrant red,

And any remnant of lush, green, summer love

With the crisp, fall foliage was shed.

His lungs were filled with the October breeze,

A brisk and unforgiving air,

That caused his chest to rise and fall

In deepest, heaviest despair.

Like all autumn leaves, he snapped

From the fiery, angry rage he was in,

And like all autumn leaves, he fell,

Being tossed about with the wind.

He felt he possessed far more in common

With the dying, colorful, New England trees

Than any lover, any friend,

Or any human being.

Yet in him, summer still lived on,

Twinkling in his eyes, so green and pure,

That not even his harsh, October breath

Could blow away their luscious, deepest, blazing hue.

His hair, a dusty, burnt orange,

His heart, like a leaf, withered away,

His chest, rising and falling,

His brow, clouded with gray,

His lungs, chilled and full of anger,

His face, bright red with demise—

Every inch of him belonged to autumn, yes;

But summer still possessed his eyes.