the weather, or something


letter
got
lost
perhaps, along with
sentiments
perhaps, tis all
for the best
perhaps…

so, autumn
she arrives
as anticipated,
not as hoped
for,
though
‘twas dreamt
in grandest
courting,
it be
the stuff of
madness,
as romance
be for the
fascists,
they that want
all
to go
one
way-

yet,
the self
whom claimed
a grasping,
now
slips wild
and far
from what
was,
idly,
by the past

but dull
be those,
these,
too hopeful
and
duller still,
be these all
hopeless
as ‘tis
in the twilight,
the dusk
of wanting
that
words find worth
beyond
primal excitement

so,
wither
fade
and fall,
to the opposing
solstice
such a beast
crawls
clenching maybes-
not content,
nor satisfied
only, almost happy
for what
was
had

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