Blown away regrets

 
As the leaves drift in on themselves in the abandoned forest, instead of the eternal, light, wind-driven celebratory dance of waves, they roll forward, collected echo-noises in ourselves. They already suffocate themselves with exhaust fumes, teenage turds, and obscene-grotesque profanity.

Broken careers and longing dreams cry their lack-death for a beat after the heavy millions. And whoever wants to prosper now by any means will be a single-minded tyrant, like an army of accomplices in the ranks of traitors.

Death and passing away - in any case - always impeccably clothe its mortals striving for old age. – And while some people do not notice the transition between the part and the whole between tiny gears at all; they drift until the Adys tree leaves can support themselves.

Between the swaying branches of the spawned, honey-colored lights, it bends hesitantly like a shadow, driven by a patch of anxiety in our own rattling, shipwrecked life. You spun your last minutes on the velvet of your heart, while your heart is an uncertain ticking hanging on pieces of rusty wire that could stop at any moment.

A silent, protesting infinity waits between the shadows... Your memories also drift, while you keep bumping into them. For your kind, the enticing, holy moto of caresses has always been a forbidden-taboo fruit: physical pain could only be for you if anyone tried to get close to you. You don't want yourself to be caught up in deliberate swirling depths.

The withered leaves are still drifting on top of each other, and no one remembers them anymore...