Autumn

The leaves are getting crunchy.

Sweet autumnal sap, sticking

To maple walls of an hourglass,
Unwilling, lingering, clinging,
To the curvature of cracked bark.

Crisp leaves cultivate inquiry
Into the nature of nature’s secret,

Withholding all but scenic silence,

And a curious palate of decay.

A tempting translucence,

Magnifying means to an unending end,
Where those nostalgic shades of sepia

Mimic snippets of aged photographs.

Broken branches giving way

To blood that is thicker than blood,

Slowly spilling forth into existence,

Purgatory’s golden embrace.

Time is in slow descent,

Begging the unforeseen question

That clings to amber crystallized,
And never yields answer.