The plumes of breaths from Autumn’s chest,
Evoke the songs of yesteryears,
A medley dipped in rust and gold,
Entombed in spirit’s sable tract.
The icy gale, the faded leaves,
In wintry grey, the ardour grieves.
The grief has built a padded home,
The sounds of laughter wait forlorn,
The season only shifts in dreams,
Where you illume the inky scene.
My life is boxed within the past,
Where sorrows fled and joy did last.
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Latest posts by Moonmoon Chowdhury (see all)
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