Sitting on a Cloud of Fallen Leaves

It feels like floating.

Hanging limply in the air,

suspended above the cold earth

and the veins of root systems

coursing through it like a heartbeat.

 

I have been here before but

never in reality.  If the sky were

to fall and fold in upon itself

I would not feel a thing.  I would

smile and toss dead bodies into the air,

those fallen angels littering my paradise.

I would crunch their bones from my airy throne.

November is death and wind.

A violent gust scatters and shreds

the field of leaves, and I am struck by

my solidity in the tornado, tethered below

the swarm of the dead achieving flight.

 

Now, when I reflect back

on that chilly evening alone,

sitting on my cloud of lifeless browns,

it occurs to me that that was the first time

I felt the appeal of death.  How lovely

it must be to non-exist.  How lovely

to not be the central focus.

 

How lonely life is when spent

among the dead.  If I could exchange

my frosty breath for a vapid vessel,

I would.  The boarding gale calls to me,

“Your seat is just over here.”