it's just the blushing maple leaves
that fall in this heated August breeze
that curl the hairs on his neck
that beckon back to the chilled moonlight
full crystal flutes he sipped from
in waiting to hear from the void of night
a distant, quiet voice called his name
luring him from civil slated order
into the wild ravages of the unknown
and he was pleased to succumb to the call
and fall just as these blushing red leaves
brush his cheek in this heated August breeze
the blood slithers down his fingers
a nest of crimson serpents trying to find the floor
drip after drop
his image lays in pieces
where the sanguine splatters pool
the glass shards looking up at him
in the same shock and devastation
his attempt to pick himself up
has wounded him
the release and shatter are numbing
turning July sun
into December night
after each month in between
is slowly counted alone
in nocturnal rains and regret
he waits there alone with his shattered self
hoping to find some glue someday
