Leaves of Autumn
The streets are gold and red with leaves
From the autumnal rains
Rain on windows glistens and returns
I wipe the fog from the glass
To see people with broken umbrellas
Walking towards a downtown train
Buses hiss and roar as they stop to pick up passengers
It is a hullabaloo.
Monet paintings reflect my emotions
Eyelids wide shut.
Why?
Can a moth make you insane?
It flutters around the flame.
It has a purpose.
Like the people on the street
We are all destined to end.
Yet we keep on going.
Knowing there is an end.
The droplets slowly make there way down
Inklings of death
The truth is not known
But the end is clear
I watch the leaves swirl
They are already dead
A season pasted
A season too early to have ended.
What is it that makes us tick?
The leaves move in slow motion
Lifting up towards the heavens and then….
Dying….
Compost
Copyright © Stephen Kilmer | Year Posted 2015
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