Autumn's last breath

Skeleton trees dance upon fallen autumn leaves,
somber silhouettes against a midnight crescent.
Such cognizant apprehension, they felt it coming:
the death of seasons.

Dull the senses,
and numb the mind,
sedate the body,
and sell the soul:
Breathe in the cellophane.

We have eyes,
but lack sight;

Given ears,
we cannot hear;

Our noses, what beautiful decoration,
but nothing more;

We touch, but we cannot feel,
deeper than the flesh.

And our mouths, our glorious prized possessions,
we speak in the form of blades, serving deep wounds with
each false word.

Cut me apart
Sew me up
Sick practice:reassemble

A crescendo of poetic despair,
Black hearts siphon our last breath.