The wind follows
Time; a beggar
and its salvation.
Apples into Cider
And as the
Ruby crisp’s
Aroma of
Young autumn
Kneads in and
Painfully
Laments the
Contagious
Twee, it was
Rosy for—
Its song once
Boiling.
And what was
Crimson is
bygone, for
It bleeds and
bubbles up,
Composing
This notion
Eternal.
It could not
Be more dead,
Youthful, and
Acidic.
Apples into cider.
In this we hold our promises close,
And seal them with the clash,
That sings the faith to turn the leaves
Casted in its effervescence.
From grapes into wine
Under the
Pressure change
Brings forth,
Your wonder
Wastes away.
Meanwhile,
Its stench is
Congesting,
The time you
Once loved, but
Now envy, for
It’s just a
Memory.
When a life
Of dying
Feels endless,
Cool evenings
Hum a note
Enlightened
And with a
Pruned-smile.
Not from the
Twinge of death,
But the relief
Age draws from
Sentiment.
Grapes into wine
And with this we toast to new day in the melancholy;
In the wind that calls our names, in a voice
Still a part of us; Each fall lets in winding
Roads to wander through.
And milk into butter
When poor old
Mothers cry,
And it breaks
down rancid.
So its used
complexion,
Is freed from
Remembrance.
The dank fumes
Linger to
The broken
Reflection.
And when weight
Gives comfort
As embrace,
Over time
You gather
Together.
They build a
Salvation;
In time you
Find a home,
No longer
Isolated.
The fresh loaf rises with the seasons
In the persistent love of a furnace,
And lures you in with the soft
Nostalgia of better days.
Milk into butter
Surrounded by the impermanence of this world, they were better days.