Autumn Market

No season’s quite like Autumn,
Foliage on the ground;
History is a spiral,
The falling leaves I found.

Socrates travelled to market,
Agoras in Autumn were full;
So many things I do not need,
Our one conditional thought.

To wintry comforts precursive,
Gates to snow and frost,
We could not see the arbours
Without ever feeling a cost.

They brewed a hemlock soup,
He drank eternal drops,
Delivered me his empty bowl
To place among my props.

Keep at bay my Summer,
She tells me I’m alive,
I’ll keep the Autumns burning
And maybe then survive.

Dig A Hole

My barren mind will oftentimes
Grasp for levelled words,
Its fallow field’s infertile,
Dreams dissolved to dirt.

I’d try to shake myself awake
Like thorns within a curse;
Letters in life’s word-game rattle,
A rib-cage emptied verbs.

Unpaid workers dug a hole,
They formed a pile of earth;
They bound me to a bloodied pole
Not far from my place of birth.

I did not even question how
These trap doors are not doors;
A lever, flattened oak-wood opened,
As out my soul then poured.