Chicken Little was right:
the sky is, indeed, falling.

It’s  dark; it’s Monday night
and it’s almost midnight
or it seems like midnight
without you here. It’s late
and it’s October. November
looms; most of the leaves
have already fallen and you’re
nowhere to be seen;
you’re out there somewhere,
staring up through empty branches
at the same silent stars
in another kind of sky.

Come back to me soon, my love.
Come back in the moonlight
to this almost empty home,
losing its battle with the wind.

The trees are nearly bare.
The midnight sky is falling.



2 thoughts on “Skyfall

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