Dying days of fall,
imprinted on my mind;
rain and fog and color,
of a subtle, gentle kind.
The coolness of the morning,
the wind that scatters leaves;
the passing of a season,
so quick, it almost flees.
The frost will come too soon,
and goblins will appear;
Thanksgiving, Christmas day,
a then...a brand new year.
Time flows like a river,
racing through a canyon;
some dreams are left behind,
and some, we just abandon.
Life...fading like a flower,
whose bloom was yesterday;
grass turns brown and dies,
and nothing golden stays.