This is not a poem.

I was raking  leaves at the backyard when I noticed the shapes varied and realized how diverse they looked. Piece by piece,  they got stuck to the steel edge;  as I pulled and gathered, piled and plucked.

Leaves. They are like people – they have many colors, some are the same as others,  a few are distinct. Most of which are dead, dried, decomposed, and returning to the ground. Some forcefully severed from healthy branches, only to lie amongst the dead ones, and soon perhaps, will turn as brown and as wasted.

I imagine how the journey of mankind is likened to a leaf’s. At some point you are robust and green in your youth, then as Autumn claims its stake, you turn golden and orange, too bright and too warm until Fall, then life gets you burned, you start to weaken at old age and become anxious about what lies beyond. As you expose yourself with the lies that you were told to believe, later on you will  start to detach your self from a wicked system that society forces on everyone.

And you  succumb and die. Like dead leaves.

We all fall down to the ground, leaves and people.  We all return to our source and Creator after we have shone in our brightest colors. Some of us fall earlier in green, quite unprepared and unready. Yet, in the end, winter always come, but those who are unafraid of the bitter cold, are just asleep. Until they awaken to another summer.

This is not a poem. I am just raking leaves.