The breeze of death flows through the trees,

turning leaves to orange from green,

sets fire to the tree-tops.

I stand in fields of gold,

this breeze empowers me with sensations so bold,

watching waves flow through the beautiful wheat.

Fall gives color to the world,

breathes life into the dying.

Death has never been so beautiful.

I stand on this mountain of life,

taking in the lesson

Life is indeed short,

but death is just a new adventure.

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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