I have been lost on the winding
paths of poetry, going around
among the withered undergrowth,
the bare autumnal trees,
the russet colours
of loss and decay,
and now my hands are tired
and cold
and my back aches
as I sit before a screen
filled with the words
of dead
poets long one with the earth
as the daylight grows brighter
beyond my windows.
02.11.2026