A Poem

I was a little rushed to finish this, so I’ll probably work on it later:

Good sunset lies lukewarm on his deathbed.
Pleasant sky-candle of posh afternoon,
Aflaring with fiery flush in June;
Then mad August, over-smoldering red.
October came: he shone tepid on dead
Leaves that dearly wanted their old place, strewn
Across the treetops; and, groundling, would moon
For sunlight as their withered green veins bled.
You too wither, good November sunset.
Will you rise tomorrow morn? Yes, you shall,
As you have risen ev’ry morning yet;
But not forever. The bed where you dwell
Is mine, and I would sleep without your sweat.
Die, good sunset–Return to sanguine Hell.

I really liked that.

Wow! That was amazing! I had to read it a couple of times to get the flow right, but I think it works well that way: it forces the reader to think about it, rather than just absorbing. Kind of a depressing way to look at the fall, but quite fitting!

Thank you. This is one I enjoyed writing, and I like how the rhyme and meter turned out.