I've got things to say about the leaves. Every poet does. Every artist. Or maybe the leaves just have things to say. They're letting it all out. Letting it go. Crunch. I wanna strip down my darkness into individual leaves of memories that I can let the wind take away. Crunch. Crutch. There's some memories the wind just never takes away no matter the weather. They're seemingly staying forever. Perpetual states of their imprints exist like a leaf pressing that was preserved in a stone. And all I'm thinking is that I need a rake. And perhaps more strength for all the leaves I need to shake off.