Untitled by Mikey Witkowski
We left our golden Summer,
Ghosts of Springtime finally laid to rest.
Like two runners
who just kept on heading west.
The unbroken bond,
stained and scarred through every test.
Creeping through the dead marsh fronds.
searching for the emptied chest.
Into the pale Winter,
We gravely bore our quest.
Clad in fur we came hither,
closer to becoming what we detest.
Until Fall’s tarnished touch
shattered the oaken crest.
That left me without you, resting on a withered crutch