oh forget the withered fruit upon the vine, the last vestige of summer, turned bitter in the cold winds of wistful memory

stroll on with tired soles, down weathered stone paths, the joys of sunlight kissing your delicate features with tender lips

strengthen thine heart milady, for the remnants of yesterday, the leftovers of before are no good for your tender spirit

let your eyes take in wonder, not this broken down fool, for you are a whirlwind of amazement, and he is tired and worn to nothing

oh my dream, ignore this withered fruit left to rot on the vine of past dalliances, turned bitter in the chill winds