The King's Army

Tenderness approaches within seven branches
Carved out against the sky.
Tomorrow’s colours may lay
Linen sheets upon the eye.
Autumn leaves rest with grace,
Devoid of sadness, and regret.
They need not beg our forgiveness,
Nor cry, I’d expect.
We’ll work out conundrums of choice;
Mixed, emotive and scared.
Presented and civilised
To the onset of the winter air.
Trouble me not
With the obstacle of pride
Escaping the touch of lovers,
I run from inside.
I do not expect them now to understand,
I do wish them to consider my own hand.
I am dwarfed by marble halls of worry,
Moments, moments, bundled in hurry.
My mark is briefity, only to be erased.
I mean no offence; my intent is never to invade.