Do not step on the dead leaves (bent veins still mourn their life) until they decompose (an agony of memories still haunts their spine) from vibrant green, to yellow, then to brown, (in shriveled bodies laid on egotistic ground,) do not step on their shadows on the pavement (the fizzled dust of once majestic highs) they’re longing still for their long-forgotten roots (while contemplating their futile life beneath your boots). Do know that you, too, are a leaf into the matrix of the seasons. So don’t discard your elders in the trash.
