Through the
pale wind and glowing trees,
I see

a red bush, hammbered and browned
by bugs and tepid disease.

Hold steady;
when you were new and sweetred-
oh, the
youth and passion
fell from you like fruit.

When you started to rot-
the shabby, sickly, and strong
were your poetic lot.

When all that remains is an etchwork
of leafless branchs-
oh, how we love and respect
the desolate,
as they die silently,
with their
raggedy air.


Ah, ah,
the soft the breeze
sweeps through
the fading red leaves,
that once seemed
brighter than blood
in the sun.

I don't want to sleep,
I don't want to stand.

I don't really want to live,
but I refuse to sit.

I'll lay my body
at your knees.
Turn my darkness
into dreams,
make a man
from this
self-created myth.