I yearn for Autumn to arrive, Shed and spread the burden it carries, Let go of wilted, withered, and weary swarms. Build me an open coffin, Bury my commonplace sorrow and allow me a steady fall. Its hapless branches my twig arms: brittle and breakable. Autumn feels more like myself. For all the indulgences of my heart, I have loved autumn the best. Unlike the lightning before the thunder, it rushes not, It creeps and crawls with the death of each day's life, Mocking the time with its sluggish descent. A crisp chill permeates the air of home and heart alike. Hush! and huddle closer. After all, there is no better pacifier than a stillness that stales. Autumn is a strict parent—unloved, unloving, and unlovable. Yet, my fatigued limbs hasten to climb, Wishing and whining to be picked up. It's a brooding bystander, It troubles me not with my trivial tribulations. Its silence growls at me to just get up and get over it!, And yet, that soft whoosh of a chilly breeze squeezes me, With a warmth unbeknownst to me. Autumn feels more like myself — lost, A wayward progeny struggling to find its way back home.