Season of the fall, crimson everywhere,
A dilapidated pile, stood aberrant.
Unable to retire, it served its share,
Alongside others, a maiden worked there.
The life he led had a dreary slice,
Finite from his cradle to that old edifice.
A deviant complex at the corner of that square,
In the county of Hampshire.
She walked past his concerns
as he ignored her extant,
Like the autumn wind that rush the leaves,
can't discern the green and red.
On such a breezy day, they walked the crowded street,
Then a puff of wind and bang,
As they stood there in confrontation,
Colour spurted in that life so drab.
This leeway they won't let slip,
As time of fate in being set,
An esse of the scintillating imminent,
And they met.