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  • Alexandro Feliciano


I can’t decide.

Is it the crisp leaves?

Could it be the brisk of the breeze?

If summer was a youthful tangerine,

Fall would be a battered bloodied orange

Always bitter,

But something about that taste

keeps you crawling back.

Why do I love this season?

Fall is like the sun that sets at seven,


Shining as bright as ever


After the sun,

We experience the dark.

The Isolated night of winter grins

With the stained toothed glow of the moon.

I love fall,

Perhaps I’m just afraid

of the dark.


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