Autumn’s Fallen

That improvised face
Framed by a swinging fringe,

All doubt and gently pressed,

The spaced-out wanderer
Wrestling with distant thoughts,

Plucking fruit from rotten trees,
Talking worries into huddles,

Pacing aimlessly,
Wired and fretting,

Straying down streets
All greys and rusty browns,

Like autumn’s fallen too soon.

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