he calmly walks along the edge of a stream,
ruminating. the sun highlights his
skin. in his hollow eyes,
the last breaths of autumn paint.
dried bark scratches his fingertips.
in november's morceau,
his footsteps shall ignite. an oleander
wilts; a caterpillar sighs; his willowy
structure drowns in the interstellar grove.
gravity fled to the moon. asthenia
buries his sound. an angel meanders.
golden insects illuminate his halo,
estrange his limbs. dragged though the
euphoria, moss stains his back. frozen
particles of dirt scream for his warmth,
his humanity. beneath an ivy constellation,
he hopelessly sketches the scattered
feathers heaven so long ago left behind.