Our lives
	Are like leaves:
	We sprout and grow,
	Live and synthesize
	All the good
	And ill it
	Is our part to do.
	Then, we grow old,
	Shrivel and die.
	But when we go,
	Some of us
	Pass on in a blaze
	Of color,
	Bettering the world
	Even as
	From our branches
	We fall.
	But mostly,
	We grow old and arid,
	Turn brown and fall
	Crushed beneath
	The uncaring feet
	Of those whose eyes
	Are fixed aloft
	On the brilliant
	Beacons that are
	Unwasted lives.


© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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