The undead autumn must
Have heard me shedding spring
This is a self-imposed revelation
The season of loss.

I walk along the fiery living
Cold as the blizzard I go
Staring up the horizons
The big questions reach mute

The undead autumn must
Have heard me shedding spring
This is the call to my slumber
The season has changed.

I feel like a decaying leaf
Anxious for the autumn
To sway me to the tangerine littered ground
Leting solemn winter blanket my smallness

The undead autumn must
Have heard me shedding spring
This is loneliness bearing my name
The season of gray.

The December breeze is my friend
Fluting me to nature's lips
Like a chord struck out of the blue
A disarray, a tragedy

The undead autumn must
Have heard me shedding spring
This is where I've come to disappear
The sunless season.

There is a crack
anywhere,
everywhere
calling you out
to fix it.

You want to be a child again
to jump above rainbow puddles
and stuff your mouth with pies

You want so much
to retrace your steps
back when it was as small
as the hope you have now

You want to be a child again
not because you'd rather be oblivious
not because you'd rather break legs than
your mind
not because of anything
except just be who you are
all you are
back before the world started
changing you

The wind leafs through my skin
Like a bibliophile  on his tenth book
My body fixes—destroys, fixes—destroys
Itself every running second
I am alive

I am alive through the universe whispering
As time passes through my
Membrane like a ghost—unseen.

And with all things eternal and inscrutable,
Darkness has two faces.
There is the sheer silence that resonates with my being
There is the call to become one with it.

I had once seen the horror along its abyss
It had my face on it.
Funny, because I saw my own eyes
Grave, despicable saucers.

But I was as still as the deepest rivers
As calm as the precedence of a terrible storm
Such that I thought I was only a moment's away
For darkness to wholly cave me in.

Where do I feel most alive?
Is it in the arms of love?
In the swift, sad rain?
The first drop of coffee?
Or the dance of swans in the
clearest ponds?

I dont know what pushes me up
With the late morning sun
I dont know what tells me to
Swing along my pain
Like wine in a flask
I just do.

I come passing time with whatever.
I come enduring whenever.
I hang on a thin line
Of 'what ifs' and 'I guess(es)'
Holding my head on days
when I just dont know

I really don't
But I'll live to find out.

The conceited cackle of green-eyes
murmur deep with their stabs
Laughing is no longer a melody
It has become a selling point
of cries and severed human ties
I'd see flamboyance in an old man with    
cracked maroon lips,purple-yellow
shades of shame in his shut lids
Too shut perhaps from the sneers that keep them down.

The all too used ****** frills hampered droopily atop the bones that kissed
icebergs of words from those who
make him not matter.
One more avalanche
and the prop heeled identity
from which he stands will bring him
down along with the world who refused.

And yet I see his ghost in my periphery
As I watched the parodied tragedies plastered with the loneliest
Faces on them. Bam!Boom! They
rot in dumps, in alleys, in late night lonely strolls revelled with crimson crimes on their arms
And unsaid dying messages about culprits Found but never tried.

And those images they
keep coming back, like prodigal sons asking for
second chances,asking for the
slight nick of eye, a slant of faith
a bread of compassion
For the ****** that they are.
But the forgiver is society and has it forgiven?
And has it thought that it
is not afterall the forgiver?
But the retriever
Of all things lost
The start for
all things to be accepted?