He had died a thousand heart deaths, 

And yet every morning he awoke against his wishes. 

Now the joyous time was come again, 

With its sweet and savory dishes. 

But he found no joy in any of it, 

Its routine he found dreary and cruel, 

It was a time for the false of face, 

A time of year for the insincere of heart to rule.

And they would confuse the nostalgia of the season, 

With love that did not truly exist, 

Fascination with whom they would not have wanted 

For any reason, taking the arm of a new lover by the wrist.

And they would revel in the new closeness, 

As false as the garland on a tree, 

Ignoring the impending disillusion, 

Caused by their shallow need for novelty. 

He wanted no part and he cared not for any of it, 

In fact he now cared for nothing at all, 

There was nothing, for him, to give it meaning, 

No one to share the changing leaves of Fall. 

There was not and had never been any honest love, 

And there were no honest faces, 

Only duplicity and convenience, 

And their later falls from graces. 

He wanted to let it go, to forget that face, 

Just to crawl into slumber perpetual and true, 

But death would not give him reprieve, 

And there was no one real to say goodbye to.