August licks
September's cheek,
as October sings
death's hymn, gently
but surely,
into the ear
of this retreating form,

the starry nights of summer
have already faded
amidst unrelenting time,

assailing youth
with details and
responsibilty, murdering
her own ambition - if only to cure
her own ennui. . .

tender between
the trees,
there hovers sweet
timber

and her once-warm fingertips
still stroke these dreams but
they are cold and calculated,
a spiritual tease
like a whore
you still have to pay . . .

But tenderness is temporary
for her tired weary form,
like this existence
unlike this nature is
equally eternal and
equally transient . . .