A Harvest In September

 


A Harvest In September

For what is worth, the ever
gracing eyes go dark.

It is as if the spirit goes back
to hallow tomb every night.

Forging ahead by eradicating the past
and leaves nothing but dust.

It is harvest time in September
yet I read a letter from October.

A grotesque ink, it is for thy
and it still haunts me.

It is harvest time in September
yet my heart is from June

That of the sun we had a spat
for sun had cried.

It is harvest time in September
yet grandfather clock is amiss.

Harvesting the sun for its warmth is a sin
and drenching me in blood for loving is another.

Crawling on all of our backs, the past,
Devour it and surrender to yours truly.

It is harvest time in September
when my hands meet not to pray
    but to surrender.

Like a walk at the park where
couples of sun and moon meet

We, too, could run, now we walk,
where do we stop?

It is harvest time in September
Where quills die and my hands stare.

Two things are to die nowadays:
One is the body, the other is the mind.

An archangel is no more, that we know,
yet my hands meet for the couples still.

It is harvest time in September
and we laid the perfect candles.

On one side, there is you with a glamorous sight
that rejuvenates me, still?

On the other, me, the jester of words and
an imperturbable lover, indeed.

It is harvest time in September
where my poems can go astray.

How delightful it is to open my hands and write
"Oh to be the cloth slipping into your waist"

To be Donne is a pleasure, but I am me.
At least for September.

It is harvest time in September
when my songs need no rhyme.

The imbalance in this expedition craves
you, yet you should heed my siren song.

Remove your shoes and dip your feet
into my liquid body, now ablaze.

It is harvest time in September
and the flames are to be quenched.

An endless cycle, one wind after another,
The grand chime strikes thirteenth.

Ah, to be drunk by a champagne or a
distant memory that thy sight shan't become.

It is harvest time in September
when everybody watches yet no one sees.

The curtain of our lives may bring us back,
yet your lips are to sail them
    and hide us behind.

There we can be two drunks, staring into the sky
as the universe forgets about us.

It is harvest time in September
when the dead rise to greet my dreams.

"Hats off to ya laddy, to be a man with such
a dream can bring me back from a pale ale."

He pities me and I pity the old man,
We both are in our graves
    yet he never feels.

It is harvest time in September
when holes in our hearts become whole.

Truly a tailor, woven ourselves with the wools
I, with love, and you, perhaps the same.

The letters are crying for they miss an inky name
with the initials, both dancing in the same circle.

It is harvest time in September,
but who is counting the days, weeks and months?
Blood bathed hands, I no longer crave
the gushing blood out of my verses.
It is harvest time in September and
it is past time for ourselves to stop
being harvested.

The bottles filled with film reels,
such a treasure to harness.
But we have harnessed the harness,
let us not be diminished.

It is harvest time in September
and around the corner, it stares,
the end.

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