Bury Your Fucking Secrets

The bracing scent of crushed leaves surprises my senses every time.
It comes on so quickly
Sneaking like a black cat
Scampering across a shadowy street
Pitter-pat

The intense hue of orange seems to
Slip in and
Sequester our society
Until we concede
And yield our prudence for a long month.

Harvest time
We bake pies
The rich aroma of apples and cinnamon.
We carve gourds
Watching for Mars.

The air is thin and my lips chap
The day will soon be upon us.
I can feel in the breeze the spirits
Which will soon possess us
For another haunting night.