You were telling me of Autumn,
but the words stumbled from your lips,
like drunken beggars,
seeking a gutter in which to lay.
Sweet dreams,
of a new year and another chance.
Funny, how we’ve been out of school
for so many years
and September still feels like
the beginning of something,
but it is not;
not anymore.
You know it,
I know it
and Autumn will bring with it
color changing leaves,
cool mornings
and school busses
and you will still be here,
stuck in this sad cycle of self gratification.
Slave to the insidious
small town sickness
that took so many I knew.
Whatever it is,
it latched on to your spirit,
like a cerebral parasite.
It stole away all the pretty things,
chewing up the ends of your synapses,
so that you don’t even know
that you’re trapped and broken.
Autumn will come
and I likely will not see you;
not That I don’t want to,
but when the season changes
and you do not,
you will sequester yourself,
with only your demons to console you.
I have long given up on sending rescue,
your jagged eye has taken
what was once so sure about you
and set free some malady
that was latent within you.
I still pray for you,
every Autumn,
for I know that you still feel
the change in the air.
I hope,
that on one of those
new, crisp mornings,
you will choose to take Autumn’s promise
and let the dead things fall from you,
to be scattered by the wind.
I hear the words
stumble from your mouth again
and I know that promises
are just thoughts to you,
that will not survive the winter.
HG – 2016
