Dreads

cold shoulders are bringing in the frost of winter
every leaf that hits the ground showing sympathy to its viewer
when the green decays to red,
the colour of passion only means death
and when you finally shove past those things that you desire
the colour of madness splashes your mouth
dripping from your lips
staining your teeth
marking your clothes
almost unaware of the affect
unaware of the crackling beneath your feet
involuntary but lacking motion
the only movement is from your eyes
the last thing untouched by this splash of paint
still able to see through the people passing by
the colour turns to motion
emotion, commotion,
aggrivaton
could you let me go, like the future and it's past
saturated in paints long replaced
because of me.
don't come up to me
or step anywhere on my street
your feet bring indents in the placement
living in the past never sounded so
pleasant
less room to live
less room to fuck up
more restraint
more stability
a minor sacrifice
for a recurrent moment
of.