I’ll never understand why fall is such a favorite season of the masses. I’ve lain in the road at the seat of death. Is there beauty in this? That? Perhaps it’s the grand façade the colorful show of nature in its purge. But death is a tilted axis, one where we tip and sip; we follow dead beliefs or other people’s dead dreams because it’s what we’re told. Spoon-fed and blind to the sight we have and hold. I understand the nature of things, but I want to shed my skin and make a rainforest coat for all the trees and their lost leaves.
The end and begin again.
But why humanity is so obsessed with death when new blooms and blossoms rest—
Spring is my season, and the emergence of belief in a macro-world where peony buds, ready-to-burst, and the mouth of a woman—survive, all the Octobers and its ultimate death.
© Grace Black
Today is Day 6 of #OctPoWriMo join me, 31 poems in 31 days. Do you dabble in word play as well? Let’s create 31 in 31!
Love and Ink,