And sing our weary songs from earth to sky;
let's never question dear old life as death sweeps
merrily along this autumn morn.
Let's not mourn a moment more
the passing of each elm leaf
which withers in this cancer riddled
change in weather, which now turns
a lovely pale and softly sails toward the end.
Yes, the witching season is upon us
our youthful ghosts that haunt us
pass along the barren asphalt street
where now the bodies of the summer leaves
begin to rot like all of we who witnessed
one too many cheery, jolly days before the fire.
Yes, we shall expire... but unlike trees
and flowers we shall never bloom again.
Our foliage shall not cover once again
our bloated boughs, our shrunken trunks,
our planted roots which can no longer hold us up.
Our dreams have stopped their dreaming,
the schemes we schemed
no longer scheming, screaming
from the tortured, sparrow's quill...
it'll scratch no more that simple writing on the wall.
A winter's night, eternal night will surely claim us all.
Bronze trophy winner
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