Leaf is carried.
Invisible.
Alone.
Through field and over brick it\'s blown.
It somersaults o\'er hedge and stone.
To find it\'s way, so far from home.
And though we glance with cold, dry eyes,
We miss this miracles demise.
We try to spy,
Even catch a glimpse,
The moon reflects, barely a glint,
Barely a hint.
For all we know
This leaf thats blown so far from home.
How does it feel to feel alone
Among the trees that bare leafs clones.
They\'re all alike, see?
But leaf is prone,
To feel the emptiness in bone.
Amidst the night, the trees conspire
And shed they\'re shiny brown attire,
For it\'s the season of the fire.
To set the fuel and strike the pyre.
Our leaf is gathered up in haste,
No branch or twig to go to waste.
Leafs final act bares fruit for men.
To warm themselves at Autumns end.
A leafs spine by fire tends to bend.
It singes tips and burns the ends.