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Leaves Die
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Silent trees standing in the night, like armed guards
in a concentration camp. Yearning hands that reach out,
touching nobody.
touching nothing.
Grabbing for the end of the sentence. Hoping that
the words spoken will fall on somebody's heart.
Hearing nobody.
Hearing nothing.
Rain is gently slashing into the chill of the dark.
There are noises in the shadows.
Pushing paper across the grass. Hoping it catches on
the weeds growing in the midnight.
Being nobody.
Being nothing.
Slacking leaves that will not fall. Shaking limbs that
do not matter to anyone.
A cat walks across the lawn. It slithers like a
shape of evil. Glistening eyes that do not
miss a single raindrop.
It is the night that has the answers to the
confusion of the day. Drink a glass of sherry,
letting the cares drift away.
Anger.
Pestilence.
The plague of distant flavours that tastes as
bitter as the heart broken in the dark.
Loving nobody.
Loving nothing.
Autumn comes. Leaves die.
Grass browns.
It is night.
a cold night alone
I can feel your regret come across.
leaves die
Night always follows the day. we can be sure of that. Everything dies.
enjoyed this poem....heather