A Poem — Free falling.
The day is damp.
My shredded thoughts not lost in the crimson of the sunset,
nor the amber of fallen leaves from tawny molted trees
that seemingly stretch like snakes
to the hypotenuse of the sky. My brain — a runaway train, a tarnished refrain,
a gust of wind on a gentle autumn day —
knows grey lies in wait, like the truth,
like distilled ashen embers of a fire
that just won’t die,
forever burning in the soul,
today I bask in the poetry of grey.