Dead leaves hang like dead skin,
Lifeless and crippled.
Bodies swaying in the wind
Skin so brittle.
Once vibrant green leaves
Smothered by a rusty color.
Bodies weakened by disease,
Distorted out of structure.
Clinging to those who‘re doing fine,
Circumstance far from parallel,
Forced to look on with broken spine
Floating in the air but in a cell.
That is Purgatory; the place between life and death.
Trapped in the world, undead and dull as death.
Marcus Roi, Toronto Canada
Poet, philosopher, journalist, spirit-warrior.