Autumn Dirt.

I wrote this last October, and it's always been a bit of a mystery to me. It's about a split, an inadequacy, and a miscommunication, but since it's not about me personally, I can't be much more specific than that. It's one of those things that end up "writing themselves", if that makes any sense. Every once in a while I end up writing something, then when I reread it I can't help but think, "I wrote that? That really doesn't sound like me". Well, this is one of those poems.

Autumn Dirt

There's a part of your life that's chewed up in your mouth,
And it tastes just like Autumn dirt.
It's made of old tree bark and the bones of a bird,
And the hem on a discarded skirt.
It's just like the dirt that I walk over now
That's caught up in the treads of my shoes,
And the car wheels at night,
All stopped at a green light,
Thinking of the broken things I could still use.

The decision was made and the blows were dealt,
Though I was never quite sure which one I felt.
I didn't understand then, and I still don't now,
But all these things end up justified somehow.

Two roads over there's an abandoned old house;
There's a busted up stove inside it.
"You're just like that stove", you said one night,
And you know I never denied it.
Because after all, there's a lesson to learn,
And after all, there's a beauty in there,
In the cracked glass and the rust
The torn-off knobs and the dust,
And the grates that have no meals to bear.

There's a sight, but there's no sound,
From the brittle leaves as they fall on the ground;
Like tides on the asphalt, from car to car,
And your promise ring is a fallen star.