Autumn Is For Dead Poets

Trees turn their features inward. Cool winds wander in like stray cats. A fiery death is in the air. the party colors are flame and ash. Leafy campfires burn the residue of mammoth bones long since devolved into the soot of charred mice. Autumn is the charnel season, its love is cruel, its farewells a promise of relentless demise. Dead poets scrimshaw its beauty on last year’s death masks, mice-tusks root up the sun to warm the naked spaces.