Life isn’t poetry
and poetry isn’t real,
so why do these words
make me feel
more than a minute of
questioning the quiet that
comes after I finish
reading of riots and
all the hopeless trees out
there shedding their leaves
without a care;
Why can’t we rid our minds
of red and grow new leaves
in their stead
of colours yet unknown to
ourselves and a future
worth keeping on a shelf
not to neglect but to show off
to the eyes that will come
long after our own are gone

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