Your perfume lingered in my living room
After you where gone.
The memory of skin against skin
Lives on.
Some would call it sin.
Perhaps, when all is said and done
One man’s fun
Is another’s sin.
The sky did not fall in
On me or you.
I am generally comfortable alone.
But I have the phone
Should I need you.
Your perfume will linger again
And I will recall
What some call the fall.
Perhaps pleasure and pain
Are somewhat the same.
But, if I am only dust
Why does Paradise Lost matter
There have been countless men
Over the centuries. But when
The poet sees a myriad fallen leaves
He knows these leaves must outnumber men.
And men fall like leaves.
Autumn leaves must turn to dust
And young lovers who once dallied
By the life-giving stream
Enter death’s dark Alley
And forever dream.
Verdant flowers.
Lovers under a tree
Taste fruit.
Unnoticed, a serpent slithers.
There is sadness in the Autumn sun
For our fun
Is almost done.
The prize could have been won
But we let it slip away
As there is always another day.
So we sit here,
In the fall
And recall
What could
And should
Have been done
The bird’s call
To man, who’s fall
Brought
Him knowledge. Now caught
Up in his thought
He hears words,
While the birds
Sing,
Welcoming the spring.
How prosaic was her fall,
She lost her sock, no great matter at all.
She found it strewn upon the floor,
Oh the banality of it all.
K Morris - Poet 