Little red leaves organize scattered on the ground in geometric patterns we fail to recognize
Except me, of course.
I love fall more that I love myself
"Don't murder the flow, the stream, the book, or the poet."
It's how I think is desperation
The flow and the river are connected
Bound by rules of nature and physics like me
We both wish to evolve and consume
Literally and figuratively
The book must not be killed
To kill a book is to kill a poet
Her words and her mind like blood and ink mixed, dripping on a page
And to kill a poet is to kill many, many books
Unborn but alive in minds
Not yet conceived.
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