The leaves are piling up.
And the streets are
holding troubled heads.
Before long, even the
morning sun will leave this place.
What is left will create havoc
on our bones, and the poet’s words
will not be heard at all.
The slugs will be left
to crawl up and down
the bathroom walls.
Heading towards a dusky darkness.
There will be nobody left
to sing the whispers of the breeze.
Just black wings of damp loneliness.
A Wandering Poet 