The Death March of Autumn

it's 11:20 on a cloudy october night 

and the world is falling to my feet. 

the world is falling to my feet 

as autumn leaves perform their death march to the ground 

as bloodied shoes scatter the streets of a faraway country.

lace on my collarbones, cherry red nails tangled in imaginary arms, 

i am as pale as the flat-faced moon and i only emerge when she does. 

there is pumpkin on my tongue and cinnamon in my hair

and i wish i could say when i look out the window i see beauty 

but instead all i see is death. 

the hazel in my eyes allures me in the mirror 

there are red candles in my room dripping onto the neck of empty wine bottles

i now write poetry

to keep me up at night

and i'm not scared of the dark anymore

though sometimes i wish i was 

because now daylight frightens me to my core

and i cannot step outside without saying a silent goodbye. 

i hope the earth does not crumble soon. 

but i know it will because death is inevitable

and even the poets cannot argue with that. 

so i succumb, as i always do, 

at 11:20 on a cloudy october night. 

the world is falling to my feet and i cannot hold it up by myself.