The Last of Autumn

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The tree was brown, as it bore dots that fluttered themselves all over the flesh of the base of

it’s trunk, like freckles over skin. It’s branches were like a man’s arms, reaching, stretching, almost pulling me into it’s embrace. There was a smell like pine, flooding my nostrils, and floating like a mist was the smell around me that I whiffed. A brown color, almost crimson-like; it was like it was painted all over the tree, though the brown of the dirt yet failed in comparison to it. As my eyes looked up, purple leaves that hung like knives, making it’s roost along the tree’s branches, reflected from out of my pupils. At the very top of the tree, freedom made it’s reign, freely; cloaked like an army of shadow, made from out of it’s violet leaves. As the ground and air had begun to dry, my lonely eyes drew tears to crumble down my face, caressing me in their lonely grace-

For every leaf that fell to the ground; my beating heart was without sound, and every peeling flesh of thee; was but the peeling flesh of the tree… To knowing of such a tree, and nay of it’s name. As I am left alone again; silent leaves falling down, as autumn dries of life; a whiff of air, as I close my eyes; my shadow watching as the sun doth dies…

Story’s Moral: To cherish good things while they last

The tree is a metaphor for a woman

Copyrightcopyright March 26, 2014

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