Each dead leaf

In the apricot bend of the season,
the mummified leaves descend
twirling down and into dead skin cells,
finger nails chewed away by the
feeble bones who chatter in the frosty
world of no universe

dehydrated colors crumble
upon impact,
the wind carries only a few remains
that become lodged in that summer white
of an abandoned web-
the eight legs of a memory
gently wrap the dust of reversed hours
when the seasons were never numbered-
a cycle romancing the deep breath of “Forever”
a lusty concept that will only birth
the reality of our own limits

the sky was never ours
and feet remain grounded

by SilentWords
posted on 06/30/2009