
To make a countryman understand what feuille-morte colour signifies, it may suffice to tell him, it is the colour of withered leaves in autumn.
— John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, 1690 (Source: Merriam Webster)
strolling on a red-orange path,
re-living glimpses of our past
fly like feathers of gold.
like the autumn foliage
running so wild,
our memories so old.
my amber sight
searching for your light,
mingling with the tears of agony.
because —
you felt so safe and sound
as the beautiful selection of brown.
[Image Source: vevo]

makes me feel like everything is in apple-pie order
LikeLiked by 1 person
thank you ❤
LikeLike
I love the seasonal slices of imagery and wonderfully compelling last line!
LikeLiked by 1 person
hello, thank you for reading the poem. this means a lot. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person