The Remnants of Morning

In the remains of an unrecognizable morning
I sit on the edge of time, flowing in silence. I see the leaves falling
like hopes that are crushed before they bloom
weak, without a trace.

The wind caresses my face
as if it knows everything I can't say
as I know
that everything that grows
must submit and die
like the darkness that awaits at the edge of dusk
coming without question.

Behind the window, the world keeps going
without caring if I stay here
trapped in forgotten words
in a space wider than all our searches
denser than every silence we've created.

Are we like leaves
falling in the same season
carried away by the wind
drifted towards whatever fate may come
unable to choose what should happen?

All I know
is that this morning
in the devouring silence
it finds its meaning
among every step that stops
in the midst of footprints
that will never return
like time that never really passes.