In the Midst of Autumn
by Neith Hale

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You look at me
with a pair of blank eyes,
as if you need me.
Is that not your prison?
Trapped in denial,
isolated from the warm goodness
that is love.
You bask in the glory
of early winter mornings
and hide in the solace
that late glowing stars,
lush with golden comfort,
shower.

You seek me
because you need me.
I come to you
because I love you.

Loving, needing
they are different.
But I find myself drawn,
a moth to the fire.

I am the moth.
You are the fire.

But to you,
I am the soft morsel of meat
you hunted.
Standing with that confident mien
you consume me,
my flesh,
my spirit,
until nothing is left
but the broken bones
of a tattered soul.

I wither,
as time permits,
and dust becomes my bed.

Did you not see it?
Was it not you who did it?

In the midst of autumn,
you killed me.