Seasons

Seasons
The frozen sunshine falls on lifeless leaves,
Their once bright faces carved with aged lines.
Brown, orange, red, and yellow paper sheaves,
That twist and dance away from wood confines.
It is as if a plague has swept the trees.
The casualties are mounting in the streets.
The wand’ring wind exhales a shallow wheeze,
The branches sway, a death knell slowly beats.
An icy vice will seize life in embrace,
And frost will paint a wasted countryside.
A stasis, void of mercy and of grace,
Whose spun-glass prison walls are vast and wide.
But death will itself, die down to a grave;
The roles up-turned, the master now a slave.