September gives way to Winter
And all novel substances will fade,
In that you will find an ulcer in the rose
And the tall grass lays fragile,
And the moon will get bruised,
and the sun become swollen,
And the flowers will cry when plucked,
For cracked stems do bleed,
And the harvesters’ tools
will remain perpetually sharp,
Here, where love is extended
to our mortality, you will seek me
only to find
I kneel in crushed grass
as I press wounded petals to my lips
Awaiting the gardener
who’ll slide shears along my soul
as he seperates the seasons of me