This is a bit experimental-it is 'twinned' to the poem of the same name so they should be read one after the other. Not sure if it works, any thoughts?

I've always considered autumn to be a nexus, a point of infinite possibility from which one could travel anywhere. It is a time between times, a time when summer has truly fled and winter is yet to bite. I would like to believe that I am in the autumn of my life, poised between the naivety of youth and cynicism of old age, able to explore any possibility I choose to. In reality I am confined to these four walls, condemned to a slow death by magnolia. I shun the bed that lies in the corner of the room, its pristine grey covers speak to me of conformity and surrender. I will not sleep more than necessary, refuse to bow to the inevitable and spend my remaining moments in slumber. Dawn finds me staring through misted panes at an island of bland boxed houses perching on a sea of featureless concrete. I watch the orange shadows of dawn creep over the horizon, mirrored by the early-risers who cast their cold, synthetic light in pools on the concrete. 

 

A blur of moments pass and the houses disgorge hordes of schoolgirls who flit and chatter their way down the street as I sit and watch and wish I could escape these confines. Instead I sit on this hard stool and let the leaden hours pass me by until the flock returns, lithe grey-clad legs skittering their way up the street. One of them pirouettes in the doorway, wide brown eyes catching my reflection in the window for a moment until she is snared by her mother, sly eyes shepherding her inside. I can hear their words on the breeze, 'I've told you before not to... that pervert...'.