A Daring Dreamer

Around the time of October’s demise

I crave harsh, lung burning inhales

and dizzying exhales.

Allure of a cigarette,

much to my health’s regret.

Icarus, downed by light

holding fast to confused

wails of the masses, unruly

in their decaying, nitrogenous forms.

A mockery of divinity and emotional tides is all I’m met with here.

autumnal grace makes me bold.

August, the doe;

what will we discover

come September’s amber glow?

There’s a ghost of you in my mind’s eye

it’s completely wrong to who you are

now,

and simply the version I saw of you then.

Perspective.

Who do you see when you think of me?

Do you still, as I do of you?

Or

am I lost to the folds of your memory?

leaves, autumnually crisped,

drift lazily; cutting their way

through and

landing in morning dew