Autumn’s chill, carving north woods amber leaves,
deadfall, inevitable, just not so literal, please.
Silent whispers, padding the soft forest floor,
beauty and stealth, gray ghosts pace as in times before.
Once again they hunt their ancestral grounds,
returned by our hand, a second chance they have found.
Take their lives in the stroke of a pen,
again, as before, we sin, and sin again.
So much given to us, in trust we betray,
stubborn, stupid children, we must have our way.
Shepherds of the damned, into self-pleasure we delve,
when the only thing we care about is… ourselves.
For sport without purpose, we lay to waste,
the soul of our best friend, pull the trigger in haste.