---
categories:
- Poetry
date: 2014-11-10 00:00:00 +0000
tags:
- Fall
title: Autumn Synesthesia

---
The trees branch out their reds and yellows.  
Their last battle cry before the frost.  
The further north, the more pronounced  
As they recall the life they lost.  
Shouting in color upon deaf ears,  
Such beauty produced at a deadly cost.

The reds rage on  
With blistering hate.  
"Is there no escape  
From our inevitable fate?"

The orange reminisce  
On the seasons before.  
"Winter is knocking,  
But Spring is next door."

The yellows enjoy  
The weather while it lasts.  
"Best to live in the present  
Than the future or past."

The browns mutter softly  
The last lesson to learn.  
"From dust I arose,  
So to dust I return."