Whispers In The Fall

The leaves are falling and the clouds hold rain.
The graves are calling each other's names.
With every passing, the wind chimes in,
kicking dust upon what's left of skin.

As the sun shines so cold in Fall,
whispers dive into the grasses tall.
A falling branch could see them drift away
down the river and the path it snakes.

How can the sun shine so cold at all?
Since when did night imbibe in sleepless thoughts?
As the answers start to shy this way,
the Earth revolves and truth is kept at bay.

This heart dies, breaking into shards so thin
every time you tend to disappear
and the cracking doesn't catch your ear at all;
it nestles in with whispers in the Fall.

Over time I've watched them drift away,
all the while the game is kept in play,
as though I'd never shed a tear at all,
as though I'd never heard the whisper's call.

Now moonlight drips upon a starless sky
and there's no cover, nor warmth in sight.
The wind plays rough in light of fragile bones
which crack in tune with shards of broken hope.