You sit on the tops of trees. Your weight means nothing to the top most stems of a mighty oak. What is left of the large leaves give way to beautiful barrenness as they shake a quivver into a silent breeze. Their last song to the summer. As they fall to the ground- there they join the ones like them. Turned brown by the lack of sun.
Only you live there now. You who live through the cold and uncaring winter of another year. You, whos blood still flows warmly through yor body. As we lie here. Decaying on the ground...
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