The autumn leaves are dead.
Yes, physically on the ground they lay shriveled,
Yet they were killed by the talk of them, not the weather.
By the very words spoken by every other poet, every other author,
Spoken by yours truly.
Husks of autumn left vacant of the very metaphor they stand for,
Because appearing as fire does not spark life within you.
Yes, the autumn leaves are dead, but autumn lives on.
It lives through the rain,
The soft drops bringing rhythm into my day
And gentle heart beats into my night.
It lives in the air, cutting into my senses and opening my eyes
To see the very breath of autumn before me, it lives
In the wind chill that sinks through my skin and makes me feel
Alive.

I do not live for the sunset hues of the trees around me;
I live for autumn and it lives in me.