The last leaf that hangs on
A tree in a forest in a dark autumn.
The anticipation, the fear, of the
Wind that comes
At any moment, to blow you away.
Staring at drunken bodies wriggling
To heart-wrenching thumps
With dead smiles
In the wee hours of a Saturday night.
An empty Sunday bed.
The ingestion of tears and
The brave formulation of a smile
To deepen the wound, that is
A sin for others to see.
When he prefers to look out of the window,
Looking at the shadow of the next building.
The infinity of questions you ask
With no reply.
Author: Harold Tor