lamp-lit and dying,
old men enjoying
not expecting tomorrow.
Laughing, they hang there,
fondling their age-old loved ones
under the branches,
hushing their rustling into the silent, cold morning.
brighter they shine there than lanterns burning
under the branches. Entangled.
Leaves, bright-eyed and yearning,
yearning to shake themselves free of the tree,
to fall at last, to frolic and be
free to explore this moonlit wonder,
free to flee to be trodden under.
will look for excitement in
Dust's History and such