Catharsis Chronicles | Melancholy September | The Familiar Gates
MS 2– The fallen leaves do not just fall. They exercise passing away in color.
The air transforms colder,
but not enough to attack.
Leaves autumn in slow-moving motion,
not rushing to pass away,
a lot more like they’re practicing.
I go through roads that smell
like wet notebooks,
like chalk dirt,
like attires that never fit.
A person as soon as told me autumn implies harvest.
It never ever felt like that to me.
It seems like ends practiced
in shades too stunning for the fact they bring.
The ground piles up with what lived
a week back.
I kick with it anyway,
pretending it’s play,
though it really feels closer to walking through
a quiet cemetery
where no person is buried yet.
Possibly that’s the technique of autumn.
It does not take you to sorrow outright.
It lets you smell it first.
This piece comes from Melancholy September — Week 1 , where common things– rainfall, fall, sunset– begin to reveal their concealed weight.