Autaums' Spill of Red

The burning Autumn, through darkened breeze. . .

Autaums',
Spill of Red

A sussurant wind hissed high
In my trees like tide o'r sand.
By red, th' wine, th' garden grass
The orchard grounds—in desolate night.

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Go the shear—of the filthy one.
Hidden in—the weedy bush
Blurred, refleshed—and blinded.

The drooping red branches
Of which—wept and shook,
Quivered and took, discomfort
Brushin th' shadows, like kelp-”help-help.”

Dizzy, dizzy—after long hot walk
Having taken nothing but cold earth.
Emotions frozen by shock,
Are melted now by wonderment.

Inhaling fear, exhaling despair
In cold, then out hot.
My hold of this reality
Slowly slipping by. . .

Numb these fingers
Slackly wane away
From this flame of sanity
Peeling free from mine, own, mind. . .