Leaving
The fog’s thick this morning,
I drag my tired ass out of bed,
feet cold,
head heavier than the world outside.
Leaves—they don’t care.
they just fall,
dull, tattered, and soaked,
smothering the ground like bad decisions, wasting away like forgotten dreams.
I rake them up,
but it’s pointless,
eventually they just scatter again
like too many people in life,
fading into the fog.
It’s cold,
and I’m tired,
but the leaves?
They keep falling.
They keep going.
So do I.