My autumn leaves a trace
of cravings.
How nice
      to watch them plonk
                their bubbly blues.
There bitter
            meets the nagging,
Namely,
Grey collides
            with crimson spleen
                      of sour overdues.
                      
I treat them all
As seasonal and timely.
It's cool to feel
      what is corrupt
        in their shallow kinds.
There nastiest are marked
between the lines of mildly
            put regrets
                  as looming shades
Of glasses oozing wine.

It all has been at least concerning
But never even eaten me
a while.
To me
     there's no such thing
                              as tables turning.
To you
    it may as well seem only
             a breath of wind.