If Autum Was a Woman WILLIE BESS
POETRY
Your bastard sister, Spring, Lies lonely in a house of decaying wood And you sit comfortably Drinking your seasonal cider, Your glass tucked warmly Between your slender thighs.
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Sweet breath of wine And hair made of fallen leaves The wind in your walk Tells me you were born from this season, The pleasant chill in your smile Wraps its icy arms Around my heart And my throat Suffocating me with infatuation.
