I Want To Lay Under a Sycamore Tree In the Autumn Air

I want to lay under a sycamore tree in the autumn air. A late afternoon breeze softly brushing across my face, crisp and cool, laced with the scent of fallen leaves. I want to lay under a sycamore tree in the autumn air. Listening to leaves racking in the breeze, ripe with decay, giving everything they have left, giving their last. I want to lay under a sycamore tree in the autumn air. Watching the leaves fall, fall, fall to rest just on the tips, of the cool blades of soft grass, forever now at ease. I want to lay under a sycamore tree in the autumn air. Others seeing the last shades of green fade, not as giving up, but as part of a plan, part of a season. I want to lay under a sycamore tree in the autumn air. Hoping not to be caught by the tailed groundskeeper, though my deeds are weak, along with my heart. I want to lay under a sycamore tree in the autumn air that is just beyond the gate, safe from the fire, but the breeze has me twisting, losing my grip. I want to lay under a sycamore tree in the autumn air.