Sunday wordle: Beneath our civility a wry grin

I don’t need an umbrella
walking through this pseudo forest
as the leaves lose their leathery coating
blushing red as they blunder
as if embarrassed
by their fall
the elves of autumn
cleaning the trees
while the doves coo and woo
and the Jays covet a squirrels cache of acorns
and I, just a small part of the picture
walk and tumble through
pondering on the permanence
of our damage done like a tattoo
on the landscape while trying to find a place
non human to dispose of my civility
a wry smile hidden by a mane of hair
as I recognise I’m so much more at peace
without that polite formal mimicry.

Carpenters in a crumbling house NaPoWriMo poem 18

An apocalypse reflected on our faces.
Beads of sweat dripping down
Or are they tears we haven’t wept
Yet?

We glow like cigarettes
being smoked down to the last
Sharpening our bayonets

Fighting for remnants of the past

An orange glow
Lit us up
No time to turn on back.

We are carpenters in a crumbling house.





For full transparency the title and last line is inspired by a reply to a post on Quora