Leaves, like bodies hung from trees are choked with questions.

I was weary and growing weaker,
In such heavy drawn out anticipation.

I am the hanging leaf on an old tree in late autumn.
So ready and willing to fall,
And fall hard,
As though I were in love with the ground.
Yet confused as to why I haven't
While all others drop so easily.

If I had the organs to scream with I would,
And so much deeper than anyone thought
I had the room in my lungs to work with.
I would leave them naked and bare
From trying my best to either shake myself off the branch
Or grab the attention of anyone nearby,
In hopes they would pity me and break my frail neck.

And I know that doesn't sound like freedom,
But I know it would feel like it.