Autumn rushes from the vortex
Where a bottle-cap used to be
And as last drops run down dry throats,
Glasses now empty like the people who are,
Winter pours from the spring
That a pen-cap once clogged
And I sit in the bathroom wishing
A single variation of summer pleas
Would keep the modern world's fallen leaves
From manifesting themselves on wrists and thighs
But a collection of words can never be more
Than all the tattoos that are all just scars
Like the people who are-
And when the hell
Did the leaves turn orange?