Mists Beckon.

September is about to die. Yet words fail me.
Of late , i have been tempted.
By darkness, new and old.


He atleast has his words, though i have lost mine.


I tell you, we must run away.
Throw the world to inconsequence, and walk to the mountains at twilight.
As the golden orb mellows, we must walk hand in hand.
I tell you , we must.


Let foreheads turn red. And songs turn blue.
We will sing to our tune.


Mists beckon.
Hold my hand, dear, and let's run.