The Leaves

Roughly Windswept fickle hairs,

Motley, many, green and fair

An Intricate commodity 

Blindly trampled haughtily

Each so glossy, keen and thin

All will fall, though none know when

No trace of eyes, prevent us peek

Though sunbeam rays, our job to seek 

Slowly prosper as We may

Sentience, Our price to pay

With little thought, regret we lack

Tell the Dust that we'll be back

Green, red, brown, black

Green red brown black

 

This poem is about: 
Our world

Comments

s10300913

The lives of leaves are often overlooked, and their job is often done in vain

s10300913

The lives of leaves are often overlooked, and their job is often done in vain

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