The Enigmatic Lives of Leaves

Do leaves ever question why they die?

To fall so gracefully down, wind tossing,

No direction, yearly, to their graves below.

 

Autumn arrives and is the Scourge,

Of vibrant pasts, the plumage to slaughter,

Spectral colors pronounced which haunt my senses,

So deathly-brown, so golden, so brilliant,

A spectrum of shades, hues, and tones.

 

The leaves are Poets in secret guises,

Each one tells its tale as it flutters down,

Whispering to the wind that caresses it,

Yelling loud, Orange! and Red! 

They're boldnes is undeniable,

And I am their confidante.

 

Though I see and hear, I am unfazed, I live,

Intangible, untouchable, wanting more, always Pondering,

The inner-thoughts of unconscious life, so that I may understand,

My meaning, my metamorphosis, if it ever comes to fruition,

I shall- or hope I shall-percieve,

The imperceptible truths conveyed by Autumn's breath.

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