Late nights remind me

of knocks on the door.

How the moon serves the night.

honoring the Sun’s duties,

brothers, but not quite.

 

Throat aches bare,

lungs breathe sorrow.

Gut cramps pain,

heart pumps dry.

Knees bow to agony.

 

The last leaf descends,

white crystals puddle,

goodnight highest Sun.

 

All things around weep,

weep for the season,

which will come back.

 

Yet, I cannot cry for 

one more memory,

one more hero,

one more angel,

the last Frankie.