dead

dry shrivelled
leaves crackle
as they
hit the hard ground

drought-aged confetti
murdered
by a harsh
hot wind

do they have regrets?
do they pine for lost love?
do they rage, in their death spin, of wasted days?

completely withered
they have surely cried
all possible tears

I am
one
of them
strewn
a useless object
on a heartless earth

alone

but joining a cast of millions

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