Mahogany
We are the leaves upon the tree We grow weary and die Only to be born anew We prepare We guard ourselves We turn dark and brittle Then we are scattered We lose our way And all that we have known We are filled with ice and pain We lay dormant We bide our time until A familiar déjà vu washes over us The rain’s warmth thaws us We bud We grow Our green blood is replenished Someday the Mahogany Of our lives will cease to breath Forever we will remain in the wind Never to return home again
This poem is about:
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: