by D. P. Johnson

Created on: February 19, 2009

Leaves, dead, dried of their life, mourn on the ground.

The rain falls brown- shrouding the earth,

Tasting decay.

Brown halts the crawl of the pilgrim,

Neither good, nor evil- only fragile.

Such a long way to go

Eight eyes- cold, vacant- like glass, yet hoping

Eight footprints in the soft earth.

The leaves steal life and begin to stir

Groping to destroy the prints- hating the maker and all who truly live.

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