October In Lover's Lane

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Crisp Fall air sends rust leaves afloat

Park benches with their self-indulgent curves

Become home to one too many of the russet princesses


Street lamps play the part of the courted lover,

Reluctantly alighting but with a fragile light

A tawny cat walks along the grey path

As the thrush sings in its abode,

Nestled among the three lamps of light


The land is home to the souls of the past,

As the ides of October pass and the 31st strikes

Clandestine is their love affair

'Cause for better or for worse,

The living are blind


A Waltz for the lovers of yore

As the years passed between them,

Paints their love a deeper hue

Some sit on the benches,

Tears flow freely as the newness of death

Feels jarring under the lamp's glow


The veterans in the reapers' pick

Dance vibrantly to a quadrille's tick

Memories of their years of death

Filled with peace, having attained bliss


The thrush is still singing

As the moon shines, a solitary orb in the sky

Stars seem to shine to light their love

Like a cosmic chandelier, witness to death's party


One must thank this deserted lane,

The living don't roam around

And by a divine calculation,

The dead play the living

Every October in Lover's Lane

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