Exit This Woolgathering

Autumn’s tirade on the Jersey flank is beseeching;
I could almost upbraid solely the season,
& discount that it is really an infant inferno

Cosseted in the depths of your eyes
That is cindering my insides.
It would be less tragic to point the finger away.

Your haven is a slaughter-house;
I remember it before when it was pristine.
Now, I’m an intruder & potential sacrifice.

Grey-tongue. Fictitious infringement.
You are terrified & easily led
To the rime catacombs of narcissism.

Kingpin – less honorary exertion;
For love there is a binding vow
Prone to intensity that you shake off like loose powder.

I don’t mean to pray:
I would walk away if I only thought
That prosaic heart of yours wasn’t haunted.