It Is September Poem by Ian Keenan

You, who have seen the
White and redness
Of that hour,
Who set the circle
And primed the bud,
When sensibilities
Felt gifts ridiculous
So great the gap;
You could not know.

Though insidious her coldness,
Enchantment turning
Tinsel,
The silence chilled by
Silent disbelief,
For the most part
No great thing,
Your losses were your challenge.

But ash, now,
Numbs the fire,
Your innocence all alabaster,
The circle cracked and
Dead the bud;
Your pathos is
Your own offence;
Unfrocked,
Your confidence corrupt,
You pass your time,
Wilted,
Waiting.