Blown free from arms
of a tree, leaving dust in a fall,
settling in the hands
of winter to its call.
Am I here, given a blanket of cold?
Offered a quilt of something
not for me to scold –
in truest gratitude,
that the faces of emptiness
see more in me than the shadows
where I lay, underneath.
Under where faint droplets of dew
are cursed, to never renew
themselves, in the same spot.
Beneath cold covers,
I am here to be smothered
by more the blankets
than the pillow.
Where I rest my head
is by chance, for the clouds.
For the rain
allows itself loose to carve
stains into the grains.
Crumbling in pain.
Just a leaf for someone to write
a testament to their joy.
To have me, to keep
the fragile pulse of a heartbeat
close, upon the bed
before curtains are drawn closed,
before I am laid down to stall
the next of Autumn’s fall.
Modern Romanticism 