The Early Autumn

I am tired
A tired, pale thing
Daily weary from
Absolving myself in embers,
Coal-scrubbed,
De-boned,
Immaterial from wants and
Bleached into oblivion.
I am mere memory
Dropping like rain on windows,
The one who loses,
A silent bird.

The leaves flutter and I am them,
Dead but still connected to the tree;
A breeze of substance and I’d give up the ghost —
Out, spirit, —
To fall untimely into unsatisfying piles,
The early autumn,
When even leaves are silent underfoot,

As I have always been.

© K Paige Medina, 17 June 2019

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