The Leaves

I'm not sure why every leaf must die,

She took my hand as she drew me in,

My autumn and gold, my summer sin,

Yes the leaves are turning brown now,

My love is not as green as she used to be,

There's sadness in her eyes when she smiles at me,

I fall slowly, spiraling, like the oak leaves,

I fear the inevitable alas, I know it's too late,

We are fraying at the edges and winter await,

I'm not sure why every leaf must die,

Perhaps it's better not to dwell on such things,

For there is death and decay in even the most beautiful of springs.