A dark numbness
comes creeping.
It is a deeply draining
Autumnal day.
The black clouds
part and weep
salted tears of red.
The grey stones,
perfectly planted
in awkward rows
mark the resting spots
of the decaying dead.
Each rock reads
thin identities,
shallow impressions
pointing to passing affections,
remembered by no one,
but random passerbys.
The day dries
and the grey, white
clouds die.
Now a bush bleeds
crimson colored leaves.
While other small trees
bereft of leaves
wear red berries.
a brown orange leaf
hangs precariously
from an otherwise
bare branch.