the dead leaves seem alive
in the shifting shadows of the overhanging branch
attached to its grim wood
a plastic bag wavers in the pattern of breeze
its slow swinging reveals its contending fears
a hanged man still bearing his deck of marked cards
a devilish grin painted with childlike hand on his
grey and drawn face
he seems to speak
you await his words
but like the leaves it is only the
shifting shadows here that are alive
and they have intents of their own
fever grips my hand
leads my pen astray with clowns of satire
and proletarians of ridged senseless order
i shall feast here on these spent moments
like the miser fondling his coin
and let the hanged man be
his own abuser
i am the root of my own evils
and have no desire to live with his