The leaves are falling already,
Their colors never had the chance
Like loved ones taken
Or the last bloom of summer.
Those who say they have
No regrets haven’t lived, or are good liars.
Because no one ever got it right
The shadows tell their story too,
Moving ever-so-slowly across the rock walls;
Cold, giant, and underwhelmingly welcoming.
They’re sneaky – those shadows.
We want to climb & capture them,
But they are only ghosts.
And ghosts never change either.
Nor do they have regrets.
At the middle of life,
And I have my color,
And time –