Past the pillared gates,
A new identity.
One day, blinded by an early September sun,
The next, wondering what might come next.
Unsure on matters of the heart,
In search of paths to other things on other days,
I’ve been here before.
Melancholy thoughts cloud an early fall masterpiece,
Perfect in principle.
And yet, cleverly disguised as some harbinger of doom.
Now one week past the autumnal equinox,
Shorter days and less-clement ways,
A death of sorts, maybe.
I’ve been here before.
What do they see,
When they see me lumber in?
Do they see themselves?
Too much reality, all too fast?
Perhaps I’m a riddle.
A wild card even.
I’ve been here before.
©2003 by John L. Fischer