The first time

Is a pin prick

To unstitch

Your skin

To feel yourself

Begin

You search your being

You are it:

Coursing through yourself

The second time

You search inside

A stranger

Behind the corner shop

You find where he begins

Adrenaline!

But come back,

Stinking of rot

Void of thought

To feel what?

What are you searching for?

To begin ag...

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The fluttering of the autumnal flags

clinging onto the last hope

of the now distant summer

brittle and brown they hang on

for dear life to their arboreal home.

The bark, it protects and guards the

living trunk against the bite of the

Northerly wind while the leaves

they suffer stoically the chilly breeze.

One final breath, and they are pulled

from their earthly space

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