That time of year a window sill shows age
With wind forming stones that berate
The glass and seep into my panes.
This world isn’t getting any younger anyways.
Leaves like yellowing skeletons pinned to wood,
Receding en masse like a mountain hairline;
Revealing decay of rock in a sweeping motion
That will outlast me.
I suppose that makes a forest pathway
A barber shop and paupers’ grave
Simletaniously.
So it goes, those leaves are empty puppets
To the wind, but aren’t we all;
Once unattached to stability we wander
Until natural decay infects our feet.
I once heard of a man that shattered his windows
And grabbed his strings
Cyclones flowing through his storm-heart,
Weather-veins. Directionless, he never existed;
The way that memories can never
Represent what once was. He stole the moon
By way of his scar tissue.
No one that injured still steps so complete.
He told me it was time, the Summer’s funeral
With tables set with sooted-web linnen
And the half-hearted requiem songs playing
On the stereo; for rest is not static nor eternal.
They stepped in with holes in their backs. Then
We played with fire until it infused our veins,
We danced until the ground was not ours.
And once the trees grabbed us again,
We wept until we were innocent.