These days pass like brittle leaves,
empty tin cans circling the street.
On a window taps the thin branches
it lulls me in a song of autumn
into a trance like meditation
that leaves me fully dressed,
on a bed now made for hours.
Filling my thirst of cool cool rain.
It’s hard to look left.
It’s hard to look right,
when you want to forget
so many sights.
But our past of keepers
protecting us and damaging at once.
If there were not a past,
time would be irrelevant.
Nothing would exist
and sometimes I want that.
But in the real
engrained through the great scheme
I hold out an offering of love
which at least proves,
my universe exists.
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