Indian Summer

Like the October winds

I spin out of control,

searching for where

the bare earth waits.

Lopsided, twisting,

throwing off broken pieces,

stripping down to the exposed veins.

I can no longer taste

the sweet purple of spring.

The soft velvet carpet of green

now feels harsh and withered

beneath my carefully measured tread.

Leaping between wintry blasts

and broiling heat.

Clinging, damp, pungent aromas,

waiting to be washed away in a

startling molten wash.


from the sweet yellow heat,

into the following season.

My private Indian Summer.


There are two things I know for certain. One: Bert and Ernie are gay. Two: I want to hear your opinion.

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