I was killed in autumn.

Sorry, that started off kind of dark.

But then again this IS the story of what stopped my heart.

The last thing I remember is the ripe and yellow woods of Maine,

And a quick, sharp, loud, pain.

I landed face up, and to God I thank,

Because everything autumn is what my senses last drank.

My ears heard the leaves rustling,

As my killer fled, increasing his hustling.

My eyes took in those vibrant yellow leaves,

And the cool grey sky, before my vision suddenly: leaves.

Now what I smelled and what I tasted,

Are in retrospect the same.

Cold, bitter, yet peaceful, all at once overcame.

While I am not happy that I am no longer breathing,

I realized after I died that I lived my life without a meaning.

And only now can I appreciate life and all it’s madness,

Because now I’m only a memory, a quite literal absence.

Now in this box with my shiny shoes,

(Yes, another work I do allude.)

Altogether my soul, still mellow,

My thoughts are captivated by death and yellow.