Cold Fireworks 08-11-25
Under the streetlamps, yellowed leaves
drift in ill-fated pairs,
spiralling through the brittle air-
a slow reluctant dance.
Their shadows, stamped on the Earth,
flutter like startled birds,
seeking a phantom escape
from winter's deadly hands.
They brush against a stranger's coat,
clinging for a heartbeat
before the wind wrenches them away-
a cruel puppeteer
that watches them pirouette and writhe helplessly,
carrying them, one by one
into the cold, dying cradle of the Earth.
There they rest
in the borrowed warmth
of a bonfire's reflection
and the sporadic firework
that sputters too weakly
before collapsing into empty embers.
And when all light fades,
and only the sound remains-
they hear
the ominous, melancholy murmur
of leaves crushed
beneath passing feet.
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