Pastels

How long until leaves dry
And golden apples rot?

A whisper only felt in the rain
Almost audible but escaping anyway

Let's regain the pastels we used
To paint our roses red

Some things should be in the dark
To sustain our hearts lid
Underneath unrealities
We defy cosmic autonomy

One drop a harbinger of the rain
Washing all our paint away
Explain to me destiny's
Morbid sense of irony

The threefold pain of realization
We have ourselves to blame

In the sediments of sanity
We pray for redemption
A remedy