That smell,
that musty odor caressing the air,
coddling it and cooling my mind.
Growing stronger and stronger with each successive stair,
birthing me into the world.
It doesn't fit,
not in these temperatures,
not in this light.
It's a cube,
in a gray matter hole.
It just doesn't work.
But it's there,
permeating the stinging air.
Cold and deadly,
it lingers without approval or purpose.
Yet,
It's inviting,
sentimental.
As the leaves shake off their bonds,
as they find rest on the dead ground,
it grows.
It's presence princely among the colors,
adorned in darkness and a shimmering beauty.
It's a rot,
a stench of death.
The silent death of a million bright jewels,
resplendent with the auras of natural flame
and lost underfoot with a magnanimous crunch.