THOSE YEARS

During our autumn years, on leaves dry we tread.
It's in times these, to lose our dear ones, we dread.
This anxiety impending, is always on our head;
It worries us more, than planning for our daily bread.

A phone call, on a still, quiet night, very late;
Sends our already weak heart racing, into a bad state.
Worry we tremendously, about the impending fate.
Though know we, for each one of us, fixed is a date.

Vulnerable we become, in this autumn season.
Think our near n dear ones involved will be, in treason.
Worry we, without  facts or any important reason.
Worry we unnecessarily endlessly, whatever be the season.

Armin Dutia Motashaw