It is a strange thing this, to consider:
the world in hasty, whirling throes
of autumnal grace, it walks a yellow
train of leaves, swathed in a veil
of misted morning; the world is marrying
the season.
And I, suspended
a static muse;
I was a pillar of certainty.
(A sweet bite of chilled air,
fresh as an apple, but I have already fallen)
When love itself was a murder of crows,
superstition coloured the earth in
fiery, chthonic shades.
There is a potent force that gathers-
like iron to iron, blood to blood,
it demands servility, it commands me
to yield. It bids me to yield
to its altering
wheeling might,
purer than light.
My life is your stage. Play it out.
I have seen the heavens change,
and a vapid world, without you in it.
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