I have not changed in years (it seems),
physically I am constant,
six feet and lopping sack of
bone and skin, buck-forty
on my best, wettest day.
These months have flown as
leaves in fall.
November is come and soon
will escape with the wind
as well and I am solidly planted
at a desk in an office with a
floor too hard to deepen the reach
of my roots.
I am like to wither and rot,
left rootless in snow and
ice; ash of autumn, flowerless.
The trees will die—grounded,
yes, and utterly passionless.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
I have not changed in years (it seems),
physically I am constant,
six feet and lopping sack of
bone and skin, buck-forty
on my best, wettest day.
These months have flown as
leaves in fall.
November is come and soon
will escape with the wind
as well and I am solidly planted
at a desk in an office with a
floor too hard to deepen the reach
of my roots.
I am like to wither and rot,
left rootless in snow and
ice; ash of autumn, flowerless.
The trees will die—grounded,
yes, and utterly passionless.
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