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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Nature · #2096204
Poetry about autumn. Questioning purpose while fearing ultimate death.

Stoic, you tower --
ignoring me?
I lay awkward,
spine exposed,
wither in the wet/warm
supple green.
Others cast off, away
from your love.
Shuddering divers
flat fall to an armless mother
who mindless comforts all.

Why don't you need me anymore?
Why am I to die among these strangers,
my supposed kin?
Why aren't they questioning purpose,
fearing wicked, playful air
whirling us further away
from your sheltering, inattentive love?

Be faithful? Hold on?
Where are the promises to materialize,
lift me higher, nearer to you?
I fear I will bleed
into this fertile woman
who melts me, destroys me
with her strange need to feed you,
so offspring might dutifully
unfurl, nestle in your branches.
They too will fall,
only to repeat my mistakes.

Cycle of death, your vigor,
breathes life into something I'm not a part.
Just stay in the moment.
Don't think. Trust this
blood-sucking woman
to unhusk your essence,
fondly remember youth and ignorance,
while you cling to life
believing in purpose.

© Copyright 2016 Brian K Compton (ripglaedr3 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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