I used to believe that

the leafy scattered things

that are our lives

have a purpose in germinating,

growing and then falling.


But what if they are just

leafy, scattered things,

blown here and there,

and nowhere?


What if each new breeze

is just whimsical,

and ‘purpose’ is merely

a neat fable to cover

the truth:

that all too soon

leaves are forgotten

brown clusters whose disposition

is driven by the wind?



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