Lies Of Autumn

Burn The Priest

Compositor: Burn the Priest

As the leaves fall yellowing like aged paper, thoughts turn acrid and curl
like cigarette smoke rising from a butt ground out on my arm.
Step into this
decay and experience dissolution.
Crucified on a plank of cruelty, crucified
on a plank of apathy to sleep the winter away.
Immobile for the cold
duration.
Huddled in isolation, to sleep the winter away.