The Fall
It sits there with its head hung low, wishing that the wind won't blow. Tired of being in this place, hating that world of saving grace.
Harder the wind gets, pushing it to resist. Now the leaves start to fall, changing its look from winter to fall.
How can one stand this place, hurt and pain leading the race.
Not knowing when its time is up, just one drink from the lords cup. Soon this will be all done, being hit and hurt by the ton.
People can say what they want, me leaving, is all I want. It sits there with its head hung low, looking around with no place to go. Here it comes, the final wind, now its gone, the last of my sins.
Now I am no more.
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