Fated

Wayward walks the auburn autumn,
from the daisy days of summer
that sprang forth from deep the darkness,
birthing varient grey in all directions.

Seasons come. Seasons go.
Still, no man finds the warrent words
to control the sun swift arms,
demanding now she raise her banner.

Fatal grips still grope them all-
each struggling for his pupil purpose,
striving for some hope or solace-
pleading death his toll quickly to take.

So end draws dawning on the dappled morn'
singing sweetly she the willow's song,
and death she stills in silent arms,
as daybreak breaks the bond of life.

-RLL