he holds up for me
just like orange, red and
gold leaves. They're looking full of
color till they turn squalor. Then breaking

from the trees drift in a breeze. He's wiped
me off as a sneeze. The built-up he couldn't
resist, a tickle that had to persist. The poem

with a twist. The mask didn't fit. He wore
it snug, a burden for him to lug. Years of  
billowing dust turned the diamonds to rust.