Times
are changing.
If
I look closer, I can see
The
greed bleed from the leaves.
The
ice is coming soon.
I
can feel its fingertips scraping
Against
my pale skin.
I
am home, back from my stay in
The
big city of the south.
This
has been my home
But
I smell death in every parking lot.
It
creeps through the air like a feather of a vulture
That
lands next to me as I stare at a stone with my name
And
lie in the ground as if it were in the plot.
