Come Autumn

A voice and face,

cure our amorous thoughts,

Just as words,

blindly fuel them.

These summer dreams,

do disguise my purpose,

and make me slumber,

when I should be awakened.

Come Autumn,

I'll remember.

That love is perfect,

and friends are better,

and meaning is real,

and purpose is difficult.

But life is to be lived,

not wished for.

And truth is to be discovered,

not hinted at.

Come Autumn,

I'll wake up.

For lazy summer dreams,

are naught but sloth,

Which is a sin more dangerous,

then any other.

For, sloth grows to apathy,

and apathy to true innaction,

Upon such arrival, the subject dicovers,

they have become a statue.

Come Autumn,

I'll blossom.

In a meadow of flowers,

each as lovely as the next.

Not a twin oak, together,

but alone on the barren plains.

My metaphors are thin,

and virtually transparent,

I hope then you can see,

the reason behind the rhyme.

Come Autumn,

and carry me away.