He is
the Autumn Ridge;
Turned whore red
of my childhood.
Love and grace
in it's raw form.
Fading.
Fleeting.
Calling me to...
to what?
Misleading and breaking my meaning.
In a sense, I know not who I am thinking of.
Is it now or is it then.
Do I need that answer?
Do the thoughts and words mean anything there?
Post Script:
This poem was written late at night, when memory and meaning blur together.
-Love S.
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