Another day
with dead leaves swirling
like the color of your eyes
The space between all the
shadows of your lines
A translucent delusion
of me in between is amusing
Wisp of belief
in what is really unreal
Nothing more than
a pleasant diversion
Just another body
another version
Never cold or alone
made of ice and stone
Tears melt what no one
sees, my flaws, my own
But the perfection in imperfection
beauty without direction
As I sit and analyze my
own reflection
Not beauty like that
enthusiasm falls flat
Pressed up against
a dream, marred circumstance
I see the dying leaves in their last
dance