Its that time of year,
the sun is soft,
mild to touch.
The buildings seem to be
rotting
basking in pale light
and mildew.
Familiar breezes
blow around corners.
and I can smell an autumn dream again.
The same cold wind,
it seems the sun,
will neither die,
nor rage,
like and undecided balance,
a moment of serenic peace,
before the touch of finality,
threatening to fall either way.
Today brings a beginning,
or a beautiful end.