Sage-and-Spades

How often the cold wind blows, Sunrise, sunset, that's how it goes. Withered leaves dry and frail, I often find myself walking down another's trail. Each cold breath of death, iced and slick, Their poisoned spoon, I'm forced to lick. Smiles fade, I fear yours will too, Every morning I'll be there, like the grass's dew. Sapphire night, your eyes do speak, Glistening like the moonlit creek. What I had was lost, what was lost was found, Your warm embrace, my heart did pound.