Death of Flame

A fire has gone cold.
Behind sepia glaze hang empty branches
Amidst a barren field.
Dense fog shrouds an empty tree while
Soliloquizing about comforting falling branches
In their final, fleeting moments.

A fire has gone cold.
Her lips are filled with autumn.
The last lies from the mockingbirds
Spiral from them;
Deserting the lips to chap
The bitter climate to come.

A fire has gone cold.
Crimson warmth of summers past.
Transforms into neutrality,
Into grey.
Into bitter tastes of lukewarm decisions,
Trapped inside her breast.

She's alone, void, and dormant.
Today she'll die to prepare.
Taking solace in life's seasons
And the ideal
That just one solstice from now,
She'll bloom.