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The Human Season
When autumn blows down summer's door.
As the leafless branches bend to the seasonal tide
My body will be left hugging an unpopuar stump.
To be an artifact within winter's womb, a herion in her
Cliched and lost frigid stories.
When a crowded and conjested room finds an empty spot
Or an attic forgets to fighten the youth with its
Sharp and forgotten sounds so common amid silent nights.
These are the places where sleep finds its last domain
And becomes the throne for the king of dreams.
When a fireplace finds warmth in a violent home where battles
Have been fought; always threatening the jaded tides of
Emotional blood to spill near the edge of all things. Make
Haste towards the ficker inside the flames. Let them dance
And make comfortable the shadows hiding in crooked corners.
When the silk of the web snaps, bringing down the prey within;
Forever falling through halls and alleyways that hold within
Them the gentle but intricate records of wasted time. When
This rarety occurs what phrase will trap the memory moment?
Which season will be chosen? What sad design followed?
