The Feast of Dry Leaves

A poem.

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When the beasts come, 
they come with fangs barred,
milky slime sliding down each ivory moon-lit sliver
coming to devour my heart. They have heard it from far off
echoing in the valleys in a past season of harvest.

My heart now aches for the sweetness of yesterday that rang clear in my heart like a bell. A taste of fruit under the sun.

I run in the darkness, but cannot avoid the tearing branches and tripping weeds. I see deep darkness beneath my feet.

I hide
And think, fierce beasts do not leave scars that I do not inflict myself.

This is little comfort: I do not know why thy come, nor where they go.

The sweetness of spring lies at my feet in the cold of winter: a gift from they who could not find me.

Do not eat the poisoned thing, so out of season.
To think it may refresh and lift the spirit, but it will only drag one far away into the dark,
stealing faith, youth, hope, and joy. The sun.

Travel a little longer.

Eat the bitter leaves of the trees that hide you.
Eat the dry leaves and wait for another day.

-MoonBoi