The train, long and determined, pushes through the landscape
of changing leaves, golden tears mixed with crimson bits of blood, the year
soon trudging to close
I do not look too far
ahead, dreading the landscape I know will arrive once the last and leaves
expire, a year full of old ghosts I can’t
be shed of -- perhaps do not want to be, the bumps and bruises of this Trek through Time
mostly forgotten, leaving the litter of fonder memories, the golden crimson I
recall long after it has gone to brown, this never ending ritual in which I
play only a small part
I get off somewhere ahead.
I just don't know
where or when
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