I want to live a timeless existence.
This life of time will kill my sense of self.
If not my my mind will mutilate itself:
suicide of a heart shorn of patience.
I’m serious. I’ve lost my sense of sense
as my senses rebel against my self
and my heart weighs down its bodily shelf.
I crave collapse and loss of sentience.
But enough of me. How are you, my dear?
The autumn air is sharp, the leaves are red,
and the crunching of leaves is all I hear.
Forgive me the dark things that I have said.
It is that apple picking time of year,
and we can’t drink warm cider if I’m dead.