June 1832

trodden underfoot
fading into the grey murk, one by one
that was us
one by one we fell, our colours changing
pain shows us sides we never knew we had
we fell on windowsills, looking in and crying
but this happens every year
each summer they desert us
close their doors and windows
do not want to know
so when we fell
the last, perhaps
they never noticed – rather, never seemed to notice
for the season of the fallen is but brief
we blossomed, grew, and finally were severed
from the root which clung to us so dearly
perhaps too dearly – I shall never know.
Sway, then, to and fro, blown thither by the breeze
until we land, and there we lie, unless
by chance we are retrieved, instead of being
simply swept away – we line the street
the young, the old, are all the same in death
perhaps you walk where remnants of our lives
turned slowly red to orange, then to brown
until the greyish murk absorbs us all.

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