He who needs coffee to sustain him,
and melatonin to pull him under,
the brine swirls in the ears
and the Vision is lost.
So fall autumnal leaves
as dead and dying
as they are. Umbrellas.
Pumpkins cloven
by the battle-axe blade
of Time. Handbags.
The desolate symbol
rising all the more
as its environ sinks and slows
down, dies, is perished.
I walk through bog to reach you.
Winter, though coming
like the methodical sweeping of Dawn,
shall destroy me no more
if, with tea leaves brewed
and steeped, with the walls
my shield, with you my fortress,
everything will be alright,
and sleep will come easy,
as doth the hand decide
to unfurl its fingers, for the moment to drown thee.
10/21/2016
Richmond