FALLEN LEAVES
This poem is a see-through mirror
Allowing you to see me
While remaining hidden yourself
As I lean back on a couch
Watching a documentary on TV
About the rock stars of the 60’s
There’s a table right next to me
With an address book of numbers
The majority disconnected
While behind me sits a shelf
Holding books by long-dead authors
Speaking to an audience of ghosts
And as I describe all of this
I wonder if you too
Don’t want to let go of the past
Like a child you raised who leaves
For a new life far away
Who seems to grow stranger every day
This poem is a see-through mirror
Allowing you to see me
While remaining hidden yourself
As I lean back on a couch
Watching a documentary on TV
About the rock stars of the 60’s
There’s a table right next to me
With an address book of numbers
The majority disconnected
While behind me sits a shelf
Holding books by long-dead authors
Speaking to an audience of ghosts
And as I describe all of this
I wonder if you too
Don’t want to let go of the past
Like a child you raised who leaves
For a new life far away
Who seems to grow stranger every day
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