They think through us,
As if we are
Tobacco for their pipes ..."
The air turns crisp,
Paper turns to essay into text
As the leaves
Take on shadows ...
They mean well,
Given livelihoods
To deify
Dead, impoverished poets ...
Who have their own ideas
Of speaking what needs
To be said
To somebody ...
But not to me,
It's always them,
The love in their eyes,
Who are all I can see.
