ominouspoet

Often it is not understood,
just how alive the world is.

You look out the window, see the still trees, and you think,

"Sure, they're alive, but not like me. They don't move, think or see."

In the sky
the birds fly,
fleeing this land, for this land is dying.
They fly south, to the deserts and the rainforests,
Places indefinitely lively. 

As the days fade from September and into October
so the leaves fade from the trees
which is to say
sometimes tearing away with a gust of wind
other times trickling away slowly
like a faucet that never stops completely

Autumn,
Season of dying.

Of change.
It’s so beautiful,

Yet a melancholy tune echoes in my ears.

The time of year when the harvest comes,

Certain. What is certain to me?

that I do not know myself truly, not yet

that I will be here, always, for those whom I call acquaintances.

that art, all art, is timeless.

that I am made of pieces of everything,