Memories of Autumn

It isn't the tenuous grasp
of dead leaves that makes them fall,
or the fact that those leaves are dead,
it is the Rain that pulls them down,
the wind that tears their connection,
The weight of our sorrow
that they've died, that drags
them down to us.

Am i so sad, are we?, that I/We
require millions of sacrafices for us
each year? Each Fall. Or Falling,
funerals for our dreams, colored and
changed, not what we expected,
and only left for us to walk over?
sweep up and package away,
paying to get ride of unwanted
waste?

When you rake those dead dreams
do you realize you torn them from
the clouds by your own failures?
That you are lifting them to the bags,
placing them on the curb,
forgetting that they will be hulled away?

I wonder if they tell each other,
"I'm this dead dream. He never did this."
to one another.
"I am still a little Green!" one shouts!
"But she didn't want to complete me!"

Are we so sad that our tears tear away
our hopes?

I see our paths covered in colors,
and our ways littered with dead leaves,
dead dreams, dead hopes, and dead desires,
are they worth raking?
Its nostalgic, looking, as they swirl in the wind.

We'll shuffle by,
walk along,
pass them by,
think of their possiblities,
and maybe,
pick one up,
reach to the sky,
and place it back,
will it to grow,
and watch
as it
floats away,
carried by wind,
desire, hope,
and dreams.

Will that be enough?
To see those dreams again?
As spring bloosoms anew?
Will we be so sad as to remember
that we once had hoped so much,
and those dreams died? and will die again?


Or will we remember those dreams
that grew and flowered?
Spread their existance out,
and seperating, they Flew up
and into reality?