... death ..., ... life ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ...

growing autumn

autumn is a
bitter dotard, tired and
used. liver spots
and calloused skin,
scales and contours
he has bent himself
into another shape altogether,
the stance hunched, brow
beaten by snapped boughs
scattered and decaying
across the calico lawn. who
will stay and tidy
up such a farrago?
alone in his
decomposition: a miscreant
Grisard who scarcely
moves, barely alive
in stillness, every step,
closer to the insular grave.

every man will one day
brown to his own Autumn.
i feel my own moves closer
and closer. fear of it
is pointless, for no winter’s
bed seems that cold
after you have grown
so impossibly old.


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