The Rusting Rain Refrain

Auburn swirls of wind-laden leaves coast to the cleat-torn orifices of soggy, mud-clung grass. That massed flapping pile time capsule of summer sunsets is crushed with entering steps like the rusting rain refrain. A shorn sheep freezes from dusk until dawn, following a downward descending path, tattered and weather worn. Stepping stone pieces beneath our feet crumble like earthen clay like the rusting rain refrain. Stammering to speak for apathy's tragedy, words are heard like Braille to a layman, as tin roof dripping resounds loudly for failure to embrace its sloping surface. September's sobs streak down beauty's cheeks like the rusting rain refrain. A farewell feast of forbidden wheat bloats our bellies into swells, stirring grief. Playtime is rushed to sleep with resistance, as cinderblock thoughts toss and turn until drifting becomes corroding numbness like the rusting rain refrain.