Suicide

Autumn was almost done, and
I was at the park bench
lying supine.

The trees exposed the bare blue sky
through the loosely knit mesh
that it weaved, from
the remains of the paling green leaves.

As a gush of wind swiftly blew
the last few hurriedly fell off
severing itself from the cords, which
nourished them for so long.

They came down
like lovers in disappointment,
falling off a cliff.