Impending Autumn Poem by Anthony Dawson
Impending Autumn
Know one ever really knew him, they just assumed
Oh how little a town can be
Scouring with grudges,
Tearing his arms
One day he asked himself: Am I Messiah?
No, there are no olives
Not a cross on a hill
Only Judas who kisses to thrill
It’s all jazz
Wether the lips tell lies or truth,
It’s all jazz
And I’m all jazzed up with impending autumn.
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4/29/2024 2:53:28 PM # 1.0.0.1119
