I'm really not usually this depressing.
These are for my Creative Writing class.
One homework assignment down, one to go!
Fall
I wandered down the stony street
With scattered leaves beneath my feet
I could not stop to count them there
My path was fresh and wanted wear.
Unlike the Frost that stops to catch
As beads of dew collide and match
To form a dimple - white and chill
That clings to empty windowsills.
I wandered on and lengthen’d stride
Too quick to wonder what’s inside
The empty windows, doors kept shut.
I shuffled past, no thought of what
They whispered each to other’s ear
‘Twas all too soft for me to hear.
Not that I strained or cocked the head -
My mind was shut, their voices dead.
I set my foot to task and chore
And left all thought of locks and doors.
I had my errand and my goal
To reach my home, to stoke the coal
To wash the pot, to boil the broth
To sweep the boards, to swat the moth
The pressing weight of every care
Detained my mind from windows bare
Until I reached my stony stair
And realized there was no one there.
Phone Call
I’ve heard you’re doing well enough
Come tell me, what is new?
I understand, there’s too much stuff
So many things to do.
No, don’t explain, I’ll be alright
You go and have your fun
I’ll call you later - Sunday night?
Goodbye. I miss you, son.
One homework assignment down, one to go!
Fall
I wandered down the stony street
With scattered leaves beneath my feet
I could not stop to count them there
My path was fresh and wanted wear.
Unlike the Frost that stops to catch
As beads of dew collide and match
To form a dimple - white and chill
That clings to empty windowsills.
I wandered on and lengthen’d stride
Too quick to wonder what’s inside
The empty windows, doors kept shut.
I shuffled past, no thought of what
They whispered each to other’s ear
‘Twas all too soft for me to hear.
Not that I strained or cocked the head -
My mind was shut, their voices dead.
I set my foot to task and chore
And left all thought of locks and doors.
I had my errand and my goal
To reach my home, to stoke the coal
To wash the pot, to boil the broth
To sweep the boards, to swat the moth
The pressing weight of every care
Detained my mind from windows bare
Until I reached my stony stair
And realized there was no one there.
Phone Call
I’ve heard you’re doing well enough
Come tell me, what is new?
I understand, there’s too much stuff
So many things to do.
No, don’t explain, I’ll be alright
You go and have your fun
I’ll call you later - Sunday night?
Goodbye. I miss you, son.