Autumn

Is the poet simply walking to her house on a cold autumn day,or something deeper?

The leaves are turning red, my veins blooming blue.
The cold whispers of the whirling romances, while I look around to find the falling few.
My scarf is far too old, the threads coming apart.
The heart is beating slow, not slow enough to silence the duel of two hearts.
As I walk over the red carpet, the rustling fights my thoughts.
My walk getting frail, alone I try to span the nights and days.
Why is it that no matter what path I follow,
it is the wretched house I call mine, my only destination to follow?