The cooler nights show more than hot air from our mouths.
They're presenting us with death.
I'm wanting more than the existence of leaves,
how could I be evergreen?
This is harder than expected,
this is nothing that I dreamed.
The foundation is compromised - feel the collapse.
Where is the presence of grace within autumn?
Not one tree being spared of the rod,
the reaper takes to his content, the cold stealing the chlorophyll.
My fate is the same.
Crutches can be stronger when made of bone,
though flesh and marrow can tear, ligaments snap.
What bridge might my Savior be under tonight?
He has many shapes, these dry eyes cannot decipher this.
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