Autumn Comes.
Feb. 24, 2003 ] 1:08 PM
This world is not for me.
Wretched echoes like so many leaves
Cast down from the height of splendour
Ravaged through autumnal burning ire.

That coiled desire winding, sprung.
Into a jagged edge that parries
Each dying day with the multiplying
Pain of each seasonal slaughter.

Quiet is a multitude of sins.
Hiding, stalking, a ravenous beast
Hibernating in cold sullen caverns
Awaiting a spring that sometimes never begins.

wax ] wane
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