R.I.P.

It's dead. I walk through the woods, the trees. They're dead. Not a green leaf remains. The wind's dead. For a moment it is calm. Then it blows again, dragging with it ghosts and memories. We sat there, we stood there, we talked there, we fought there. We kissed there, we laughed there, we fell there, we lived there. And it's alive. Alive with memories. It's dead. That place that once held so much life. Would be alight with "lights" every night. Would be the place that you'd find everyone. Then the wind blows again, dragging with it ghosts and memories. We sat there, we stood there, we talked there, we fought there. We kissed there, we laughed there, we fell there, we lived there. And it's alive. Alive with memories. We walk home. It's cold and we're dead. Dead and numb, with cold. Cold is dead. Like the summer is dead to the Fall. Then the wind blows again. And it's alive. Alive with memories.