Like a leaf on an autumn day, I drop helplessly.
The branch is sturdy but, its hold is weak.
Pale yellow, thirsty and withered, the leaf floats with no sound.
Only the wind -- so gentle yet so determined -- carries it downwards... whispering, whispering muteness that deafens me.
Summer is over.
As I watch the sky -- once so light -- grow farther, I remember the warmth. The warmth that was summer. The warmth that was.
Pale brown, steady and stoic, the branch remains with no restraint.
Only the cold -- imminent and austere -- counters its apathy... bursting, bursting muteness that deafens me.
Summer is over.
To the heap of the heartless and the dead I come closer.
Silently, I join them. Still, silence knows not only assent.
Pale, pale and pale, I lay with neither sound nor restraint.
Only the crease of my skin -- sore and unrelenting -- looks up... crying, crying muteness that deafens him.
Summer is over.
