The season tilts,
air thins to cold.
Doors close,
grass recedes,
the earth held farther
from our feet.



Inside
glow of screens,
pages without end.
Voices loop,
names repeat,
reason frays.



The signs appear:
walls papered in text,
hands ink-stained,
eyes red from light.



Madness is not sudden
it creeps with the season,
with each word added
to the infinite scroll.



Fall deepens.
Grass is distant.
And the posters
speak only to themselves.