I rose frantically,
Smelling of bed sheets.
The only dawn that of another summer.
For the sky is still black.

So we have an old night, a young summer,
And me, awaiting them both taking their leave,
For Autumn days are phenomenally breathtaking.

It is the passing of time
In the most abrupt fashion.
Smell. Sight. Everything.
It is utterly depressing.
But the way Autumn wears
Our sloughed off years
Is dashing.

It is a single afternoon
When time stops.
A museum room
With time trapped in a glass box.

We all file past and our faces’ glow
Then another year’s passed,
The museum’s closed,
And we grow old.