Steps echo a cold preamble to coming winter.
It permeates the otherwise silent inference of continuity
I assent to with every step.
Around me, all of life goes quietly -
it lives regardless.
Down the promenade, a single tree
stands golden & brown against the dark.
When the summer heath faltered;
The birds deserted
and its’ splendour was no longer needed,
it was returned to earth.
Now it stands in the midst of night!
All of it bold death & fell beauty.
Beside it, all is lifeless.
Houses, with their pale glow;
Concrete, with its’ accented, unnatural angles
& me, in my commute.
How pretentious of us!
to carry on like this
when to die is so sincere.
