Quilting the Poems

It's true I might not ever grasp your pain,
ignore me, but keep one thing in your brain:
this pain is like those colored autumn leaves
it changes, even if no one believes.
As leaves alter from amber, yellow, rust
and lastly lose their status into dust,
this sorrow also, one day, will grow frail,
diluting its own self with life's each gale.
The monster eating you will go away
just keep together your strength till that day.
The winds of joy will blow this in the end,
left after will be fragrance of its blend.
Without its tree, how long can leaves survive?
without its source, how long can sadness drive?