Often confusing

Trinity

Autumn.

Gold.

Orange.

Death.

It greeted me, a strange twisting of the light. A faint shadow of the trees, a rustling breeze. 

Her scythe,

Shimmering like diamonds.

His might,

Towering like mountains old.

A peaceful breeze, to whisk me away. But not right away.

As it walks past,

I glance, the rustling of leaves a chorus of wails.

The dead,

They huddle in its arms.

Her gaze, I stare into the pits of her gaze. I see my future.

I see a mirror.

A life by the blade meant naught, but death and depravity young.

A sheath I leave, blade naked as I listen,

Kneeling,

For her scythe,

The armys might.

Winter.

Young.

Blue.

Stark.

A blade's bites like an icy burn, painful yet joyful.

Release.

A reward, for the weary.

A warmth my lifeblood seeps, perhaps to steady the hilt.

Traveller.

Do not fear the change of winds,

Be it life,

Or love.

A sheath we all become, and I know surrender,

My war over,

In a war yet beginning.

And yet no embrace, she lies, yes he does,

Just a cold, winter breeze.

Summer,

A third.

A pomegranate,

A rotten word.

The warmth of a furnace greeted me,

Even the dead needed comfort.

Grey,

Hollow.

As alive as they were dead.

How many, I wonder, truly lived beyond a shade?

It stares from its den, waiting to observe,

Death, curious as a bird.

Summer.

Peace.

It was time for ease.

No hell not heaven for me,

Just a limbo in paradise, a small unease.

No warmth, no comfort,

Just a faint disease.