The golden leaves fall gently
across death’s threshold,
and I collect them curiously,
not as payment but as tokens
of time’s inevitable passing.

Each morning now feels frost’s coming,
and the impending winter of resolution,
as I stand barefoot, waiting and firm,
accepting the creeping cold,
feeling earth’s turning against my soles.

Memento mori hangs misted in the air,
and I breathe it in through fear and curiosity,
letting it fill the spaces between these ribs
where birds once nested, where my grail
took flight in spring’s eager season.

Time has carved its geography into my flesh,
and I trace these lines like ancient maps,
in the mirror of my perception, each line
a memory faded or clear as the day it was
formed to reveal this life of winning and losing.

Let the night come when it will,
for I now know the cold shadows,
and I have read by starlight,
and darkness has taught me its
wisdom– its own strange comfort.

16/2/2025