A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


The dusky melancholy returns,
The brisk, smokey air,
Crisp to the sound,
Of falling leaves,
As we enclose ourselves,
Once more,
Within the comfort of hearth
And home,
Our harvest of dreams,
Their vapour
No longer met by playful sun,
Condense back into the heart,
Hiding again until,
Next year.

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