Watching your leaves fall,

defeated for another season.


makes my skin crawl.

Hear it everywhere.

True insipidness,

disguised thinly

as false bravado.

Bitter jealousy,


as social care.



oblique distress

and melancholy,


as being self aware.

No distinct sickness.

This infection

seems to be quite general,

like a fog

of ultra-dense malaise.

I’m over here.

A pilot light

on a blowtorch.

About to be

burning off the haze.

Clean up the leaves.

Tidy up the space.

Burn all the refuse.

We have no place

to keep all of these

memories of despair.

Future might be pain,

but we know

the winter’s coming.

Watching the leaves fall,

knowing there is something

still undone.

Can’t sit still

until the final setting

of the sun.

The silence comes

when we don’t speak.

Say “Good-bye” to the weak.

The meek shall get the Earth,

but only after a season.

We all must die first.

The cold set in.

First the quieting

of the din,

and then the roaring

of the flame.

This is gonna be

a different place.

When the leaves return

under the same sun,

who will be there

to know their shade?

Will there be anyone?

Passing on

from summer ease,

now there’s no leaves on the trees.

Winter comes,

feel it on the breeze.

Will there be any

left of these?



HG – 2022

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