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.