The last vestiges of the evening are upon me,
And I feel, deep in my soul, that slumber is death.
I tighten my grip on consciousness, my blood racing.
I do not want to let myself go willingly.
Tomorrow beckons, pleads, and stipulates,
As sleep tries to lull me into an unconscious submission.
I detest this old routine and wish that I was free,
Like an owl flying below the moon but above the humdrum.
I aspire to challenge sleep and tomorrow both.
I yearn to emerge victorious in the lively night.
Let the sun’s rays reveal something new when they arrive;
One who is truly awake by nothing but his own accord.
Red and orange and yellow leaves
Carpeted the lot where my car was parked.
I crunched over them and inhaled the autumn air;
It was smoky cool and earthy fresh.
I peered down at the leaves – those abundantly scattered,
Dried up, crinkled relics of life,
And played with the idea of grabbing one.
I haven’t cared about a leaf since I was ten.
I drifted into the car seat, started the engine,
And noticed a single leaf held firmly by the windshield wiper.
It was curled and wrinkled, yet regal and robust,
And orange like the late evening October sky.
As I drove off, the leaf shivered in the cool wind
And I, uncharacteristically, rolled my window down.