the water lines are the seasons
the rifts are ages unknown
yet this tree is always a constant;
i stand on the banks alone

i relay the static world
through desaturated eyes
to the uneven terrain in my head;
decidous hills that roll to the skies

[i hear footsteps behind me...]

the crisp crippled leaves
the fragile, fallen twig
i hear death sway in the pines
a malignant squeal from a pig

the echo of some gypsy sanskrit
carries on the breeze
chanting last rites in shades of mourn
that tend to freeze

as i remain, motionless;
thinking
contemplating all i know
harrowing perfection
as seasons come and go

10/16/2005

Author's Note: sad. followed by sonnet #36 (the epilogue to desaturated october) - which completes the story... makes it understandable.

Posted on 10/16/2005
Copyright © 2025 Joseff Marat