It's a perfect autumn scene unfolding before my eyes,
Golden pine needles cover the road like snow
Leaves of red and yellow dwindling on skeletal trees
That clasp its death grip upon the house next door.
A graveyard of vegetation awaits me each morning
Full of dead and dying, these rotten grubs
Are wasted entrails in this cadaver's gut
Winding, weaving as it falls through the cracks
Of old wood and insolent twigs
A middle finger to the topiary gods with ADHD
I will roll my body down the cemetery hill
Until I strike a gravestone
and get cut by granite, my blood is one
With the passing crow, and the dirt
Layered over cement vaults
Where you will find them waiting.
I hear the voices calling, the message is clear
The dead is alive in you and me.