I have become the dry leaf,

condemned by Autumn to be red and gold,

until the white night gently falls.

 

My beginning lies buried beneath me,

and my end, but a whisper,

that only the still and silent will hear.

 

Life has become a gentle pounding on the outside of the house,

and I an observer of beauty,

no longer a participant.

 

Too much bandage,

not enough skin,

too much to hang on,

where we’ve all been.