Withering into the Autumn Rot


We, the kindling of this whittling onset.
What slumpèd husk doesn't know this war?
The foetor-scented fingertips spousing our kind
with foliage and tendril, desiccation and spore.
The arboreal maw
dotting suns under teeth,
grotesque penult:
forms bored beneath.
Born betrothed to this lover in th' allure
twixt earth and bodies that succumb to its trysts,
some scratch its tally with recalcitrant claws
while others offer waters from their wrists.

And I find my plot in between each response
as useful as the rot that these bowers ensconce...

Autumn-wont!

Heart I’ve drained over stone and bark
to lend my days more than the mound where we depart...

Undone!
Carrion’d by the cruelty of wind,
my life led to rescind.

Every epitaph eventually fades,
the Nature of the place to disregard ours,
foregone sehnsuchts unsuccored by
even a firmament of posthumous stars.
Thus the desperation veining
everything I touch with what this cadence conducts;
thus the sun-gutted sky and cold of lichened goodbyes
when I've unhearted myself and it's still not enough.

My worth returns: the dearth of earthward branches,
a forest floor my wasted make to claim.
I lie, my one use preluded with moss
drawn over crestfall as extinguished eyes
find the night burning my name...

Older-sown than my search,
worthied in ageless flame.

The burdens of worth and of grace
breathe peace back to

Autumn
I become.

My heart slows its beat,
drums with warmth replete...
drums its gift to death.

Autumn!

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