That Time

This crave of gold raised a claw of silver

Upon its might, the Sun creeps in

Comes forth a gentle spring with fruited beards under the boughs

Now comes the time, when that time never comes

Now is not tomorrow morning anymore,

But a decaying part of what has been.

Evermore ugly is that brightly colored dress

Of smiles made of salt , from the earth beneath

Glowing in sparks, yet fake,

Wrapped around these leaves like the auras of saints.

Crashing down and out the door

A swallow stole the key to the garden of gold

In the shadow of the red rusty oak

She made quite an appearance

Evermore ugly is that dress of caterpillars

A fire inside washed over by wet arrows

Wind touch, petals kept falling in the well

As Autumn came and in love you fell.