Leaves fall off the branches
Foliage fine for fresh fauna
Branches so brittle ,break
The weight of silence serenades
The stiffness and staleness of the
Sombre statuesque state

Lonely, the graveyard
Lonesome, the dead
Lethal and liberal the agent

Morning takes ages to yawn
Night seems satisfied life to pawn
But, hesitation is not cessation

They mourn in murmurs
Death does them in numbers
But,in April, flowers fill with blossoms.