Unread

Each leaf that falls,
on which I write

is a story in itself;

from the way it stands

on the ground
wanders around

you could tell,

if it's heavy with words

or simply light and sound,
if it has failed

going to heaven

through hell.

Each leaf that falls
on which I write

has a story to tell;

it's falling on the stage

like a tired footfall

sitting underneath a tree

a passerby who
in between taking rest
held the fleeting leaf

with the hands
covering the face
with kindness or rage
so one could feel

the leaf
its unsung agony;

but you overlook it all

over it you write your own

stories, with an impending tone

it absorbs your lines
lies
on the bed

brown and unread.