Alice

Before there was a bud preparing to breach what was not

Before one had to swim through the aether

Before the everlasting Eclipse shrouded all.

The flower brakes through demanding water and life

Perhaps Autumn is the season of figments. When what’s real is hidden behind mountains of fog. It is a time when what isn’t dances perilously close to what is. The same way the burning leaves that fall, perform their final reel with the wind.

The irregular trods of exhaustion, followed by certain ones of death. Chasing the mouth of the Styx. Trying to ignore the screams of a thousands hanging from the limbs of lamenting branches, whilst following a torch that still would not light.