Fall
October 23, 2011

by Elexa Rose
 
Greens and burnt oranges
Are counting the gasps
Of air we take
In this cold, bitter hour.
 
Cracks from all the trees
And broken branches
Crisp and crunch
Beneath our steps.
 
Your pace is slowing
Looking out to sea
Though we’re far, so far
From the comfort of the harbour.
 
The crackle of the radio
Buzzes out.
Your eyes are deft and slight
In the diminishing light.
 
The end of the road
Is in sight, finally.
We’re all concentrating on it,
Even these dying trees.
 
Even these dying trees
Can feel the tension
Can feel my thoughts
And you look at me like fresh meat.
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