And when the wind brushes through the aches of each year,
Solemnly allowing time to free the memory of your gaze.

As the barren land I plant white flowers on, simplistic with the seasons which come to pass,

For an eternity seems to cruel for a single moment to exist,
purely painted on the wall of fate,
With a thread as beautiful as the first break of Fall,
when the leaves care not for their colour,

Yet times gives them comfort for a colourful end.
© nosihlekatherine