The severed strands of Septembers past Milled about with thoughts of youth Partaking prematurely from the fount of regret Distinguishing between the add ons and what nots they had gathered on the road They glance skeptically in my direction
This is no fun, no fun at all Even if all my notions of the word were reborn and rearranged I can’t conceive of any merriment or mirth Hidden below or dangling above this misbegotten meet
And who arranges such gatherings Most likely midwifes with tattered stockings And little left to do But peruse the petulant prose which portrayed me in such a pale light
Feigning reinforcement resolves to root out this weekend repast And charge headlong screaming freedom and forget me nots At any shallow head which might turn this way I’ve forgotten what to say Twirl another strand of hair stuck awkwardly on the forehead of the universe
And we were all waiting like blind acorns in twisted tunics As the caravan of caricatured contestants collided With the haughty holdings of the hallowed harbinger And whispered all my secrets in the air Just as the rendered remnants of my hidden heart Gave way to the scattering winds of this solemn September Fortune flitted in and flared her skirt for me And smiled… just smiled