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Rated: E · Poetry · Death · #2124954
It's not all colourful leaves and a pleasant crunch underfoot.
When autumn transitions,
leaves return to soil, coiled
in foetal positions.

Rain falls in arid valleys
onto their organic corpses,
like dust clinging
to taut skin.

Grief shiver by gravestones.
Tragedies mouthed like prayers
to rekindle bone-

-and the spectator moon
pours ink into buried sky,
diffusing outwards
the intoxicating memories.
© Copyright 2017 Archaic Torso (wakeupdead at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2124954