You were autumn in the bush that kept me at least tepid, as I made the unknowing decision to journey through that barren waste land. If I was anything to you i was a grain of wheat, I had to let my love for your fall and perish before us. You spent four nights inside of my tomb. You lead me to love myself in my own self perpetuated hell. Four nights I was able to set aside the fig leaves my late father gifted me. On the fourth you left my walls stained, the same color of your blood. Like Lazarus, it had seemed as though you brought me back. My yearning no longer a lamb but a wolf, with the sharp, black eyes that refused to be covered. And you were just another false prophecy.