Autumnal

She, in boots, accentuates the carnage.
See her stamp the leaves, as I address
A sense of loss. The fall has come,
And, with it darkness, cold. It's not
A novel feeling. I have known it
In the spring, in summer's rioting
Of life. The aging man, it seems,
Will see the planet aging, as himself,
And mourn what isn't really gone.
She beckons, “Come and march
With me,” but I am lost within my
Loss, too old to see this round of
Death as transitory. What I see
Is someone well worth loving, sadly,
Not exactly loved. Her boots bash
Leaves and how she laughs. We kiss;
The sense of loss remains. The carnage
That her feet have brought is,
Rightly, but a lark to her. I stamp,
As she would have me do, and laugh,
And have her in my arms, the damage
Done by years in passing, fall of
Earth and fall of man, though
Permanent, I keep from her. It's
Best she doesn't see.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 65 times
Written on 2014-10-02 at 12:58

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