The StoryTeller

In the amber grasp of Autumn’s hand,
When leaves like whispers softly land,
A tapestry of gold and red,
This season’s song is by nature led.

The sun retreats with fleeting grace,
Shorter days left to embrace,
A symphony of twilight’s call,
As dusk descends, and shadows sprawl.

The air grows crisp in sharp breath,
The herald of impending death,
Yet, in the chill, by beauty’s birth,
A canvas painted for the earth.

As branches shed their summer’s gown,
The world transforms, a quiet town,
In every leaf that takes its flight,
A metaphor for fleeting sight.

The aging sun, in somber grace,
Reflects the lines upon each face,
A mirror to our mortal strife,
By Autumn’s dance, an ending life.

In seas afar, where the wild winds blow,
A fisherman sails through ebbs and flows.
The creak of the timbers, the spray in the air,
He battles the elements, a life most unfair.

Loneliness whispers through the crashing waves,
Broken by ‘gulls crying from their oceanic caves.
The vastness around him, his silent despair,
Steers through the solitude, a man without care.

The searing sun beats down on the brim of his hat,
A relentless companion, for ever burning in spat.
With hands on the wheel, weathered and strong,
He weathers the storm in sailor’s song.

Salty air stings as the saltwater sprays,
A dance with the sea in the sun’s withering blaze.
Yet in the heart of the tempest, he finds his reprieve,
A fisherman’s life, a testament to believe.

In chambers bright, where laughter sways,
A game unfolds in childish daze,
A perilous dance in furniture led sky,
The floor, a fiery sea, flows high.

Child’s wit like lava’s flow,
Their tongue as sharp as flames that glow,
Yet in this game of youthful glee,
We’ll find a jest, you’ll agree.

Oh, the floor is lava, a whimsical tide,
Imagination’s fiery guide,
In my repose a smirk would gleam,
For even in play life’s but a dream.