This poem is versed
from October’s dying leaves
penned with the rain
on the parchment of wetted streets,
riddling their secrets
from questions unknown.

This poem is not
a spreadsheet, not dead
still piled among leaves
left purpled in your garden,
braved into strength to battle
the castled clouds above.

This poem demons
its opinion with
its fangs and its claws
with collective Halloween angst
from the voiced opinions
of the recently deceased.

This wingless poem
still (butter)flies
among the bare branches
of a near November night.

Today I host dVerse MTB where we verb nouns and adjectives for poetic effect. Join us and have fun.

October 29, 2026