Twelve

Stop feeding me

This sugar solution

Stop at the 12th floor window

My hands are on the door

But you don't let me freshen up

I watch you pull the sheets over your body

I see you do the Thorazine shuffle

But you –

            you are still silent

Because if you were to speak

A loud roar

And you'd wake up from your wet dream

Thinking it was Autumn

And Autumn is dead now

Autumn is dead.

© 2006 David Greg Harth

2006.04.02.04:06:00 @296NYC