Heroic leaves mourn with my skin
as we both wrinkle past the fabrics of time.
To winter, I am a rusty lock, once golden and robust.
I have come to realize there is no lyrical salvation
about to be composed by a half note's hunger.
The voice that has carried me three feet high
is alike the autumn's fall.
I wheeze and wail my arms, but as I command my nerves,
they fail. I am a faded nonentity,
reborn without promise and sold to the ruddy
yet icy face of silver's ghost.
