Poetry of a Conlanger

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Blood Leaves

The world is ablaze with color-
Crimson, pomegranate, bright gold.
Even the water is aflame-
Still as any mirror, it reflects the seeming blaze.
A wind ripples a branch,
And I dance in a rain of crimson leaves.

I’ve spun too fast, it seems.
Nature becomes my nightmare.
Trees no longer seem afire-
They are.
Too late, too late,
Fire erupts
Across the lake-but I thought it was

Ripples of icy heat
Move the branches above my head.
No longer do maple leaves fall-
I’ve been spinning in
A rain of blood drops.

(whoops, I wrote this one in October and never got around to posting it.)


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