Little ConquerorA Poem by Richard HartshornThe seasons are my anachronism.
The last bit of whipped cream
refuses to be sucked through the straw Weighted training in the Autumn, I have resigned to rot here. Inside you I will die within your guise Let our gaze and imminent embrace be frozen and let the leaves change behind us. Through the oranges, reds and browns, our expressions will not change A photograph to remind us of those sweet airy times, the ones where we ignored those parts of us that passed away. That pile of crunching red leaves with joyful blinks I remember the falls into happiness into time into futures that could never exist because they were so far away I was so excited to see a single leaf crumble to pieces in my hand. Caressed by the thrill, I leaped. When the leaves were wet from the desperate rain, they brought no stains. As long as our hearts were both tingling, I couldnt go back inside. © 2008 Richard HartshornFeatured Review
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