It smells like an aquarium,
The soaked and sodden streets.
My wet shoes squish against the concrete
Like the suction of an octopus’ tentacles.
Beating like a steady drum,
The rain comes down hard,
Ripping life from limb,
Never asking, “Must we die?”
The red and gold autumn leaves
Now stained with dirt and rain
Lie trampled on the ground,
Tears of hopelessness running down their thin veins
Or is that water?
The edges of those fallen soldiers
Curl up, shielding themselves from the heavy feet
The battlefield runs slick with blood,
Fresh from gaping, open wounds.
People run by, and silver cars speed past
Blissfully unaware of the massacre
That happened on that very street.
Can we ignore the cries and anguish of those
Who died for us, before us, and because of us?
Can we lift our heads, and pretend we don’t see
The bodies, the blood, and the pain?
They are only leaves, but they are so much more.
They are reminders, and warnings
That someday, we will all die.
When we die, will we be
Just another leaf,
Kicked to the side of the road by angry workers?
And will they be angry because we are dead,
Or will they be angry because we are dirty?