all the hope this life offers

all the illusion it suggests

all the torment and struggle

conquered

For what?

At the end of life

we can be sure

that we will know

or we will be suffocated slowly

in a quiet room

where not even the walls

know are name

and that

might be preferrable

to the miseries

that befall the leaves—

At least, it’s a clean

well-lighted place

rather than

a dark dungeon.

So, when I walk above ground

in the fall light

suggesting death, that subtle breeze

but not quite

I ponder the dying leaves—

all those faces becoming cracked

their veins popping-out, breaking

brittle

Even the proudest leaf

will fall

striking the earth

raked

into the burn pile

to tinder a flame

littering hope, smoke

of ashen faces

that thought they would never fall.

What is friendship, but a red color

orange, in its fire?

Death, is always black.

What is hope, but a limitless sky

Rebirth, green—

meaningless, until the seasons change.