The Land of the Dead
October is the crossing over; the once here now there. The final turn of an hour glass that soon will be empty. There is a headiness to the air like soft fruit at the peak of ripeness before it begins to rot. A cold that grows colder amid nights that grow longer. Days of orange and gold; become nights streaked with silver. October is summer’s pyre. Deep beneath the ground things begin to stir, some settle in for sleep while others awaken, and roll over. October is the land of the dead when there is still life for the living.
Submitted to: Poet's United - October is Here