Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By: Edward J. DeSilva, Jr


The leaves fall faster now; it won’t be long.
Tragic ballerinas pirouette and
plié, magnificent in their death song.

Lively spring-greens once supple and strong
fade into shadows of glory now past.
The leaves fall faster now—it won’t be long.

Fleeing from where they no longer belong
the honking goodbyes of geese overhead
seem to mock autumn’s splendid death song.

Wings clap a tempo that cannot prolong
ill-fated passage from life into death
as the leaves fall still faster. It won’t be long.

In the distant far-off a lonely dog’s
cry chases ebbing light from a purple
pink sky, glorious in its death song.

The darkness takes hold, invites doubt along –
night closes swift around and within. The
leaves are nearly fallen, it won’t be long.
I will be magnificent in my death song.


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