A past autumn, last year

The soul was crumbling, the words thrashed like mice on Titanic. Foolishly, they shuffled, almost unceremoniously did not admit prohibitions. For you I wanted a verse to write, my dear Autumn, but the words were shivering and snoring their winter. They whimpered like a wind, playing with a comb, and then they covered themselves in a curtain of softness. The torn thoughts were pirating, they fell on the dance floor, I was drinking them with brandy. I stacked them effortlessly, tangled them in couplets, and they were scattered in their own magic. With my last effort I stopped my last thought and in it I drew a strange rain and a quiet song. I sent her to the sun, kissed by the breeze, the sea will sing to you all for you, my Autumn.