The feeling of the detached maple leaf,
Could be no less terrifying,
Free falling and every desire has a,
Different directional pull on the way down.
So we whisper goodbye to the gnarled limb,
The rain that swum from root to cell and back,
Falling as gently as the chest of a sleeping child,
And in time corroding the live wires between.
Deep in our hearts we knew it was inevitable,
To feel the cool brush of Death’s kiss as,
Cold hands peel off our skin while we sleep,
Skin that kept us from, spreading our wings.
According to the time span of rusting lungs,
We are constantly forced to redefine ourselves and,
The mirror we gaze through, though it feels foreign as,
We mouth each epiphany with raw fetal tongues.
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