The forest of October, heathen sight
Is at once inviting, and forlorn
Lurking midst the catacombs of night.
The garden of my mind beckons the trite,
And distancing from senses that adorn
The forest of October, heathen sight
Proclaims the advent of the sun, her might,
Oblivious of that drape, tattered and torn,
Lurking midst the catacombs of night.
But I choose pathways winding that benight
My judgement, and find myself reborn.
The forest of October, heathen sight,
A shadow of itself, a sorry plight
A maze replete with faces glum and worn,
Lurking midst the catacombs of night,
No longer oozes wrong, nor screams its right.
My garden mind is now a prickly thorn,
The forest of October, heathen sight,
Lurking midst the catacombs of night.
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