written by: Zach Zajac
The dead leaf sways in the dead grass,
Covered in dirty snow,
Reaching toward the wind.
It looks like a drunk dancing on a living room carpet
To a tune of its own design,
Waiting for someone to put it to bed.
How long can the rhythm persist
If the radio is broken
And the feet are frozen to the floor?
I want it to leave.
I want it to escape.
I want it to find a place to rest.
But the breeze is too weak.
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