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.