w h i t e
The churning orange of October skies
slowly fade to a frost
a white that freezes the earth preserving
the rotted remains of maple leaves on tossed pumpkins.
soil and roots squashed by boots of lost huntsman
blown by the same indiscriminate breeze that scared the birds
away and stripped the sycamore trees
A forest without birds sounds
how I imagine death feels.
a piercing silence, cold, and without color.
with its mouth full of fangs forever feeding
on my bones whenever I’m alone.
and when it’s been extra famished,
it’s like an ice axe swung at a trombone.
crushed and mangled
stuck in silence.
a kind of quite just like the empty forest through the panes of my window
buried deep like the pains of a widow.
There is a beauty in the quite it brings though,
only if you remember what it was like without it