Remnants of a livid affair descend
into the inaudible whisper of the dawn.
Stir the wind trapped between the grains
of sand, dried sea and tumble weed.

Impending arrangements dissolved and
placed back on the wooden book shelf.
Time is silent outside the clock,
but the growth and decay endears
the skin to prolong the stay of execution.

Life is evident with each breath
and the blank sate from a fly's eye.
Wings without emotion betray the lifting
force to embarrass the eagle's pride.

A light without a ray is what
a sound without a wave is to
the truth without reason and
for eyes in the heart to believe in faith.

Despair nourishes the hunger found
in the spine of an open flame.
Trembles feed the cold hands
to leap over a heap of scorching stomachs.

The Winter of Autumn
DirkWojtczack