ominouspoet

Certain. What is certain to me?

that I do not know myself truly, not yet

that I will be here, always, for those whom I call acquaintances.

that art, all art, is timeless.

that I am made of pieces of everything,

Autumn is upon us, the season of change!

Soon the trees shall burn,

and the colors echo in the hearts of the valley.

And the river, endless winding thing,

is slowly turning icy cold.

Wind

roars through the valley,

the leaves cling to their trees,

holding on for dear life.

But the wind is too strong,

and soon they are lost to the storm.

Rain pelts anything reachable,