The Autumn Analysis

Talkin' 'bout my generation.

Dear Gentlemen, I fear the worst,
It seems his sickness has dispersed.
Each branch that wore a valued green
Is drying now, in silent thirst.

This could have likely been forseen.
With no attempt to intervene,
His rotting roots, I have to say,
Were lucky to survive the spring.

The heavens nod and carve away
Some epitaph, upon the day.
While each leaf speaks a rustled sound
Insisting it will not decay.

Perhaps no comfort can be found
And though they are no longer bound,
We watch from every fold or crease
As they refuse to touch the ground.

And Gentlemen, you cannot please
The children of the dying trees.
But when their father makes his peace,
Oh Sweet Release! Oh Sweet Release!