The winds of October have come,

and blow off the calloused skin,

flaking to fallen leaves of red,

All under harsh blue skies,

whispering the tongue of barren winter,


The snow comes,

down from mountain passes,

an unforgiving finger,

poking at open wounds,

and freezing tissue,


Gritting teeth of agony,

moving lips muffle the screams from beneath,

I tried to bundle up to forget,

yet the thought of home sneaks its way in,

a threaded needle on the string of memories,


A blanket presses down,

against the wakening trumpets,

Where is that familiar sound?

Of unrequited laughter,

of standing and demanding,

laying down beside me,


Steps tread on sharp stones jutting up my spine,

Socks worn to holy martyrs of trail,

Shoes misplaced, miles behind,

What solace may await at the end?


I miss hands smaller than the ones I bare,

grasping at my robe,

pointing to the sky,



And indeed declare!

I see,

I see and I know,

Outstretched to the sky,

Into the unknown,

those little eyes already dare to question,


Alas, I'm too quiet to answer,

and not every word dances in my ear,

down the nerves, exciting gray,

Lightning possessing a most precious shape,

Recoiled and unprepared,

by the little girl who dared,


Whose eyes will forever by the torch,

Whose voice echoes in every faint crackle,

Whose touch livens every swoosh of circulation,

Whose hair smells of watermelon shampoo,


Vainly searching through photographs,

My ego shattered and returned,

All justification lost,


Acidic tears dissolve through my chest,

Precipitating in tracheal passage ways,

A lump of autumn leaves


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