Impending Autumn

Poem By Anthony Dawson

Know one ever really knew him, they just assumed
Oh how little a town can be
Scouring with grudges,
Tearing his arms
One day he asked himself: Am I Messiah?
No, there are no olives
Not a cross on a hill
Only Judas who kisses to thrill

It’s all jazz
Wether the lips tell lies or truth,
It’s all jazz
And I’m all jazzed up with impending autumn.

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