It was a dry day in hell when I died.
The sun bore down on an autumn sky and the hardening leaves, seemed to fly
on a gust of wind
on a one more time
But time was as brittle as their lives.
And life no longer seemed so contrived
as the day stung clear in my eyes
oh the eastern sky
could never hope to hum a reply
to the red and orange sense of last night.
When we still hung about.
When we swayed in the rain
and cackled as we swelled and we rose again.
But those days are underneath us now
or we are underneath them.
Should we rise to meet them
these feet, them.
We'll see, then.
Ho, hum under the glorious sun
cracking away underfoot
we lost touch
when we got touched.
And everyday before just passed.
Oh, now comes the dusk and the breezes
where we incite sneezes
and tell-tale wheezes
leaves out of season
leaves, out of season