Cornelia Bullen-Smith

/ as…

autumn turns to ruin numberless dreams
of fruitful trials,
end is defined as end, days numbered by
the invisible nibbles of time. Marking crossings with o u t,
about-turns plummet then run dead.
Thinking ahead, sinking on slitherslide, I weep : Oh
keep me on, reap me not now,
I long for life! Free me for one final
spring or so. Spare me once more, one silly summer
of  frolic, one lusty love. I beg for hope’s horizon to be adorned with
days unnumbered. Steadied thus I shall succumb, creep towards winter, heart
…first and perhaps ://


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