| Autumn leaves that collect weight in the ashes of Summer
|
| Are cracked and broken by my intruding step
|
| Foreign thoughts that invade my questioning
|
| Of deaths' cold cold waiting
|
| No bait will deter the ancient stalker
|
| Whose colour I’m not sure of
|
| Who’s walked between this park
|
| And with icy fingers prepared this morbid corridor of bracken
|
| To take my steps closer there all the time
|
| Then your fingers — hard and comforting
|
| Write solfly through my hair
|
| All that may die between us without death to take the blame
|
| To play games so unprepared
|
| To dance round fires ungurded
|
| Tears become blood of sorrow
|
| And my pulse keeps time so badly with the tune you play with me
|
| My steps down streets that remain unchanged but change so many
|
| Will just vanish like yesterday
|
| Don’t think dark throughts you tell me
|
| Yet all our fate waits prepared in darkness
|
| And my hand will funble for the door
|
| Whose handle is too high for me
|
| Whose wood is from those mighty trees
|
| The trees that lay down their leaves so wrecklessly
|
| Mlight remains flickering in Autumn
|
| And musky smoke from blazing bonfires
|
| Will rise like incence from the funeral pyre
|
| In preperation |