Goldenrose

She began to realize that thinking thoughts in your head was fairly different than writing them down.

if life is but a dream for the dead

may you visit us during autumn, the eldest of the seasons

letting your fragile bones be exposed to the crisp air of october

letting your fingertips run over the bars of the cemetery gates

Subtle changes, sudden rages, this is the way of the sky. 

It wakes from its sleep to viciously reap the limbs that are no longer strong; 

at other times it seems content to collapse upon the earth and cry.