Poetry: A Bench in the Woods

Ochre leaves, fallen upon the lush shafts of green
The falling orb of fire, soon not to be seen
Still is the water on which it reflects
Golden shafts of light, the day they protect

Trees tower overhead, scatter the light
As the fading limbo transforms to night
But alone on a bench, amidst the twilight
Sits a man in silence, pondering his plight

In the air there drifts, sounds of waterfowl
In his mind he hears, an ear-splitting howl
Calm though outside of him might be
Tumultuous inside contrary

Orange be the scene, while red is his sight
Though it doth grey at the coming twilight
As has his hair as the years have worn on
And shall his thoughts with the coming of dawn

Cold to the bone, though this he ignores
He sits on that bench, his fingertips frore
The stars pass him by, and the day is begot
His pain in the past and yet not forgot

Tired are the eyes, which look upon
The morning woods, night all but gone
But that which remains, and is much unchanged
The discomfort he felt, real as his stage

Whilst performing unto himself alone
Player and audience alike are shown
Both the crux of the matter, and that which he sought
His inescapable and nihilistic thought

If leaves are to fall, as he knows they do
Then what is to be, of him, me, or you?

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