Autumn life – A poem

Melancholy pain,

Intertwining with that numb sensation.

A leaf drifts down the street,

Like a homeless man wandering down backalleys,

I drift through the streets,

Like a child drifting through a sweet store,

But there are no sweet stores, only dead things.

Dead trees, dead leaves, dead buisnesses. They will be reborn in time,

And nobody will notice they were ever dead, besides the trees that birthed the leaves, and the earth and it’s creations that birthed the buisnesses and the trees.

But their creators do not mourn the lost buisnesses and lost trees, for there is a romance to repetitive mortality,

An infinite swan song.

I have a dream, that one day, there will be something to dream about.
But dreams aren’t meant to make sense, are they?

They are but a fractured vision of reality,

And maybe when I wake up reality will no longer be fractured.

And maybe when I wake up the trees will be alive,

And so will I.

7 thoughts on “Autumn life – A poem

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