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I Am Santo

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I’m flight. I’m leaves torn by the season’s gale, strewn on the asphalt of your path, your dream. Wasn’t it such a betrayal, the rapid dissolution of cozy afternoons into the flee for company, the mothering of your troops. You always knew the war was coming. It was divined in the passive way you looked to the sun, away from the glorious luminance that constantly endeavored to make you glow, yet failed time and again. Was it so strange that a new world would see value in what you’d taken for granted? An autumn punished by your winter of frozen touch. Enough! Let it all freeze under your hand and die. Death by both of us, the fire of my will and the chill of your indifference. And so a world will be born anew, with the combatants unleashed from their separate corners, an eternal fall stripping the world of life in gorgeous splendor. But what an extravagant end we’ll bring, filled with all the gentle catastrophe onlookers love to behold, our yellows and oranges the fire of unsettled differences; the debris of final judgement. #autumn #fall #newengland #street #leaves #foliage #tree #poem #poetry #writer #writing #literary_imagery1 #literary_original (at Battle Cries)

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