Sensing Autumn

Seasons darken and come round again
to this dark time,
where the candles come out,
and all round are spectres of the past,
of what might have been,
of cold drafts and dark thoughts
and an inability
to get and stay warm
for more than five minutes.
Fingers stained with pomegranate juice,
tongue scarred with cinnamon,
eyes squinting in the greasy soot
of tallow candles,
we sing and dance,
rattling our skeletons,
until the sun comes back up,
and puts the flesh back on our bones,
and makes us opaque again,
and full of the scent
of autumn leaves,
woodsmoke,
and the growing cold.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.