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?

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