Читать книгу She Planted Her Own Flowers - Kathlene Suzan Sharpe - Страница 10

Scarlet leaves of autumn,

chassé over a frost-bitten wind,

tenderly devoured in whiskey and sin,

she quietly walked in the chill of winter,

through a stillness both tranquil and familiar.

Crackling fires on frigid nights,

fall foliage and painted landscapes by motor bike,

he was the calm amidst a disturbed life.

October graciously returned a haunted soul,

clutching the secrets, she left buried in the cold.

So delicate were the hands, to grasp evil by the throat,

without an audience, the end to a diabolical show,

and in the chilling absence of exaltation,

autumn welcomed her home.