A warm wind blows that shakes trees
And sets golden leaves free to roam.
Transition time now between what was grown
In such surety of purpose,
And the dying and the melding back.
I thought I knew how to be once.
But the seasons changed
And my solutions lost relevance.
They acquired a different beauty
That crumbled and snapped at the slightest stress.
Now they lie in the dirt.
Rotting with promise of new leaves
For the next generation,
Whilst I look on bewildered,
Wondering where my dreams went.
May my children not make the same mistakes.
Purpose is an illusion meant
To defraud us into believing we have value.