A Way Station

On the way between here and there
There is a stopping place
A roof which cuts into the abyss
The sunset cauterizes the artery wounds
Movement is painful
Those of us who have been mutilated
Hope for what was

I live in the amber of pumpkin
Destiny is not a place of confusion
I do not need to tread with caution
It is not necessary to take a number
I am not a second guesser
I know what's untenable
And the pain in my heart is my demise

The leaves are in the fall
They crunch under my tread
The droplets of crimson red
Blot the leaves
I am lying in their midst
When the blood turns brown
And like their acquiescence mine is resolution