Autumn (Almost)

September 15, 2011

Autumn whispers at my window, and I have never been more ready to be dead and gone from here. The embers rest beneath my dimming flames, the ghostly ashes rise above. This fire is a beacon, my last hope, my only home. Autumn is my season, but I am frightened by it’s familiarity and the fury I perceive within the meaning of it’s call.

This land is raped with fires. There are no trees left here to change their gaudy colors, no leaves to fall and rust away the earth. This Autumn place is wasted, centuries in peril, decades dead. We each have burned our fires. We each have wasted life and light and hoping. We have wasted all we had in the face of this early darkness, never realizing our fires could never have been seen or stood apart among the thousands. We have all burned the same. And now we will all sputter and falter and fail the same. What a humiliation…

We had been taught this way. That is our excuse. We could not have known these outcomes, not have prophesied this massacre. The trees are dead. Our fires choke the breath from this thin place. We cannot cultivate here. We have ruined this land. There is no rain to fall and clean us. We took that too, with the heat of our flames. Nothing survives, save for these pits that serve as memories of us, effigies in circles of stone that once, in all their glory, separated our fires, one from another. What a terrible joke we are…

When Autumn gently kisses at the corners of your eyes, close them quick so you won’t let them betray your disguise.