‘The Loss Of A Thousand Autumns’ by Andrew Bradford

Where I was going that long night so far removed from me now

Emerging from the alley in the semi-darkness, she looked like a lost waif

We stood along the path, daring not approach the Deity

Awareness is a myth; understanding is only to be found in the memories of each muscle

Toward dusk that day she reached and touched her cherished distant star

Curled tight like a wounded bird, the old woman attempted to speak her last words

I am a fool, plain and simple–suppose it can be said of us all sooner or later

Trying so desperately to obey the rules of some force never felt this strong

He looks askance at the gathered tribe of men and turns on his heel

Would it be preferable if we merely suggested what we saw in our sleep?

I fear the sounds I most despise will be played

For all eternity or even beyond that fading moment

She was there once in the mirrored reflection of my hidden eye

I reached for her and found

The leaves golden and red; the world dying in early frost

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