The season of death is upon me:

It is leaving the home

I have shared with you

Through the frail summer winds,

To come out into the pumpkin patch,

Of Autumn.

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A fatigue encompasses me and I feel agitated.

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A smoker stood beneath my window,

On a rainy, October night,

With a silhouette,

As gossamer as the rings he blew,

Reflected, in gold leaf,

In each puddle lining the courtyard square.

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As the morning stirs, outside the blinds.

I am alone, with the drone of the heater

Roaring unhappily to life.

My dreams are yesterday’s leftovers,

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Verlaine’s last letter to Rimbaud

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