The Thing on the Stair

by Wesley Baines

Autumn brings It

Rustles in amongst the leaves

They still themselves before It

Still, the rustle

On the stone

Up the stair

You felt Its presence

On the air

Caressed your brow

As you climbed

Drawing forth

The poisoned thought

It formed it raw

You formed it first

And gently

Took your hand

And dragged you

On the stone

Down the stair

Autumn brings It

On the air