The Nostalgia of Spring is In The Dead Autumn Leaves

The nostalgia of Spring
is in the colors of dead
Autumn leaves, once hydrated
and green, though the decay
seems rich in the way the leaves
fall and sway in chilled winds
graceful colors rest in content
with a summer well spent in
sun lit cheer, when drops of
sweat drip down a forehead
which can not understand
the concept of regret, those wrinkles
are the result of excitement
as miniskirts hips swing while
bronze thighs lead to a goodnight
good times under a smile that was reminded
how it once charmed water and turned
it into wine, bottled it into a traveling flask
for the road which you are better off
to not ask where it goes
but now the Autumn leaves are long dead
within rich frozen soil resting peacefully
under a Winter's worth of snow
as cabins burn with fever, restless ghosts
desperately wanting to taste flesh
once again, coughing dust suspended
indoors dancing with nicotine smoke
a warm body indoors remembers
the colorful dead leaves, once green
and prepared to not give a fuck
"What comes will come, I'll die
a bright orange or yellow, my hand will
wave and impulsively say Hello"