Leaves leave
Stalks cleave
Wind wins
Cold breeze
The same breeze that serenades your face,
Impose these friendly killer blows
to these unknown pro’s
In prose.
Stay with me.
If stalks could talk,
They’d probably
Exercise their right,
to grieve, the ones that left.
It’s an alright life,
But I regret this need to accept.
That you can’t control
What you can’t control.
They say leaves leave.

“Don’t cry, it happens”

It’s tragic, but it’s reality
like the harshness of gravity.
Throw your dreams up as high as you need to,
Stay on the ground and they’ll meet you.

So…”Don’t cry, it happens”

But we exercise our right
to grieve the ones that left.
If stalks could talk…
they’d tell you more;
They cleaved to those leaves
and fought thoughts.
Conceived a need for relief.
Now autumn haunts em’
So they let go,
Then they don’t.
Their tears blanket the concrete.
Obsolete in defeat.
Leaves leave.
But all we ever knew was love,
so excuse us while we gather up,
and exercise our right
to grieve the ones that left.

– Lex