Dead Leaves
by Andrea M. Newton
Still I see you walking away,
a grainy black and white movie,
made before there was color or sound.
My face scarred with drying tears
that I swore I'd never cry again.
Like an empty shell that echoes
with the desperate wail of the wind,
I mimic the wind (or it mimics me),
and together we keen, silently,
within, so no one else can hear.
I wonder what the wind mourns
as we walk down the street together,
through the town and the crowds.
I hide it within me
behind a pleasant smile,
nod of hello, casual wave,
and light, quick, directed stride.
But, inside, the still howls.
Its echoes rattle within like bones,
scratching like dead leaves
blown across pavement.
When you walked away, swallowed in night,
I felt my soul crumble, and the pieces --
the pieces withered to windblown dust.
And the wind still screams.
And I fall to my knees, eyes to God,
clenching my fists, echoing the sound.
The fading bits of who I am
swirl wearily, desperately,
then float to the ground
on the vanishing, agonized scream
of the shattered, dying wind.
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