The leave that hold my passion come from a tree of a dying breed; and as they die my words die too.  There are no more seeds to plant, the earth gives life no more anyway.  My dead garden of verses decays, and the weeds take over my memory.  What was once a fond thought of the past now depresses me when I see what has become of it.  The dead garden filled with the fallen leaves of my poetry will never live again.  But I still care for them, as the words once cared for me, even if it means loneliness forever, caring for these dying reeds.