A Harvest of Windblown Souls

To this wavering family tree I’m but a withering leave My rustling a plea to free To flee my mind’s sieve Though their love is evergreen Having strayed too far from my roots I’m the first to fall this season I crunch beneath the march of boots To this quivering branch I wish to be a fertile seed Far beyond its clenching reach Lest I end up mere bird-feed A scattered golden existence Trampled by uncaring soles A slow death marks our brown existence A harvest of windblown souls