Autumn's roses are brown.
Broken, yellowing, crispy
petals remind me
of many loves long past.
Rotting hopes are for clowns,
bargains showing plainly
tragic beauty,
comedies of the past.
Mockery and tactless advice?
I've made up my mind
to sit amongst the idols
for my last few beautiful sights
As it all comes down around me,
as I knew it would since that day...
To sit amongst my follies
and appreciate every day.
(Shot him right in the back.)
(Nearly lost his mind.)
(Tried to explain the road you were taking.)
(You walked away and smiled.)
Shot you right in the face.
Showed you the light.
I showed you blatant self-destructin,
and love left long behind.
Autumn's ashes are spent.
Missing stems don't remind me.
So, then, why do I stop here,
as if familiar scents were on the air?
Rotting hopes are for clowns.
Maturity is a tragic beauty,
choosing calamity in true love,
comedies of futures past.
Winter's frost is nearing.
The air is clearing.
The blood is fresh,
and skin is white.
A lover's heart is mending.
More minds are transcending.
The time is almost right
for more lovers left far behind.
Autumn's roses are brown.
Broken, yellowing, crispy
petals remind me
of many loves long past.
Rotting hopes are for clowns,
bargains showing plainly
tragic beauty,
comedies of the past.
Various Nefarious characters
intertwining
in the moonlight,
soon the hindsight,
just an echo
of all we might have been.
We seek out partners
of potential,
circumstantial
romantic advances
standing
still
for one event.
And, then, we grow beyond the other.
And, then, one path becomes another.
And we chase after a lover
in another
to measure up,
compare, and,
in despair, only exclaim now
what of it?
And realize now in a moment
to control it,
and perceive how
we've created
ourselves
to have
potential infinite.
And always grow beyond the other,
and to be pleased by a reflection
of impossible standards,
then patience to a point,
always
growing
beyond
the limits we had set.
Various nefarious characters
intertwining,
whining...
Autumn's ashes are spent.
Missing stems don't remind me.
So, then, why do I stop here,
as if familiar scents were on the air?
Rotting hopes are for clowns.
Maturity is a tragic beauty,
choosing calamity in true love,
comedies of futures past.
Various nefarious characters
intertwining,
whining...
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