The fall-fire grows upon the boughs
Of trees once brightest green
And from earth’s coldness does it rouse
A life that once had been

I stand before a splintered door
Into a rotted hall
Where holes and cracks infest the floor
And mold, the nearest wall

I wonder what transpired here
Before the hall’s demise
If it was home to mirth and cheer
And seen by many eyes

It matters not, not anymore,
To this impatient world
That this hall and its splintered door
Are home to mirth and cheer no more
Instead it’s where the beetles bore
Their little legs uncurled