Middle-autumn is cold and dreamy
makes my heart want to fall and fly
just like the leaves
when the wind tears them apart from trees,
from their home.
how do they feel?
do the trees feel free?
or to they miss the leaves?
I have this book made out of leaves
i wrote a poem on each of them
and now they’re free and flying away from home.
they’ll soon be hurt and missing
and yet the trees can’t do a thing,
but miss them.
My poems will disappear,
so will the leaves…
but the trees won’t move.
they’ll stay right there
until the end of time
to wait for the leaves to come back home.
they’ll stay in pain, in cold and darkness
and wait, wait, wait…