Epitaph

The fall leaves burn,
Yellow to crimson,
Like rouge in an urn;
Fresh blood – in prison.

[Macabre, indeed, is perspective
Washed over by pallid memories of strife,
Of a heart unwilling to forgive –
People, sculpted judiciously –made larger than life.]

Spring's fall
Or
Fall’s Spring?

I allow, tonight, the slow warming of my cold room
To be my comforter, playing its part.
Accompanied by yellow lamp-light and receding gloom,
Reason carves a niche in my heart.

History, doggedly repeats each paragraph –
The good, the bad, the ugly…
But I engrave a final verse in your epitaph,
Smearing a memory sneering smugly.

Forever.

For Life…

Fragrant spring
Or
Scarlet fall…

is beautiful.

Sep 21st, 2009.