fifteen tales from the dead man's chest

It's such a fragile flower
Blooms and withers
With the loss of Spring.
Gone at any hour,
The sorrowful notes that
Its brethren sing.

Then, like summer rain,
It pours and drowns
All memories slain.
They find their way,
The bitter tears,
They whisper and haunt
With each passing year.

It's a hasty decision
Don't spare a second thought,
It's numb and it's faint,
And with all precision,
All words still numbered
And all for naught.

November, come and past
Like a leaf in the wind,
Then takes cold December
The smile off its lips
It steals such sweet sin
And buries behind
The madness within.