Autumn.

Amber art of a dead god
runs with the wind.
Humble colors speak a still flame.

Everything you need is here.

Ribs flow with the flesh
Lay lines melt metal flag poles
These composed corpses have no rivals.

My thumb brushes one of their number...
This braille is the word of god, I thought.

I bowed to the wind in respect for the dead.

Soon the sun will rise, breaking
the chapel windows and setting the church aflame.

Soon.





[blind]

Feel free to criticize. I invested little time/energy into this poem, 15 minutes staring at a leaf.


[blind]

I'll join you in an ode to the purest season:

Between the green and barren
Lies the changing leaf
Between birth and death
A beautiful transformation
Between the pit and rind
Of the sweetest kind

No comments? Not even a "murder/suicide", just a shitty poem by some pretentious twat?


[blind]