Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Poor Leaf

There's a leaf on the floor,
Brown, deformed and alone,
It blew in with the door or underfoot,
Its origins unknown,

Probably fell from a tree is my guess,
Was fed an empty cup,
Which prevented it from absorbing light,
Because its chlorophyll just all dried up,

It lost its hold on its home and took off,
Flitting about briefly,
Then lay on the ground forgotten, useless,
That do be a leaf, free.
Yes, it may rot,
Return and feed the dirt,
What will happen to this one on the floor?
He, who's inflected no distress or hurt.

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