Hours Of Autumn Poem by Louis Kasatkin

The hours of Autumn chime
their slow lament,
dedicated to lachrymose entwined
self-pity and ennui;
The drumbeat their heartbeat
clockwork automata running out
on rails upon the hour every hour
as if in a scripted trance of
misconception misconstruction
miscellaneously gathered into sheaves
at the harvest of absence in the
greying dawn of an ever greying day;
Autumn autumn its slow cortege passing
by with mourners staring vacant into
the aperture of a future long since
denied long since betrayed longer since
buried in an unmarked grave surreptitiously
by fate chance providence luck kismet
happenstance coincidence and all the
banal infantilised jejeune explanations
of the Big Certainty;
that of the hours of Autumn
chiming their slow lament.