Autumn

Falling.

Falling.

Into the pit of despair
Into the trough of despondence

The boy fell.

Not a sheer drop nor steep descent
But a slow,
Painful slide.

Not a scream nor a cry
But a chorus of mocking laughter
Accompanying his stifled sobs.

Not a word of comfort nor a gesture of warmth
But a mob of bees, their incessant buzzing
Stinging.

The boy tumbled.

He groped around in darkness, contemplating,
Should I? Should I not?
Eternal confinement, or
Eternal contempt?

He could just end it all.

Stay at the bottom of the pit forever.

Let go of the cruel world.

Just leave.

And in the fall he will burn a bright orange. Glowing with joy.

And after the fall the rest will wilt.

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