Dead Leaves

By Wil C. Fry, 1992.12.04

Copyright 1992 by Wil C. Fry. All rights reserved.

See the light of the sun pierce the glass
Head looking down as questions you ask
Knowing the Truth but never really accepting it as real
Plagued by pains and circumstances, hurts you can feel
Blinking an eye as a tear trickles out
Expressions of helplessness, perhaps doubt
Compassion is questioned, elusive love trickles away
Dry dead leaves drop to the ground; dark autumn day
Pleasure comes no longer from pleasurable things
An anthem of bondage from the soul now rings
Chilly winter breeze saps the fire from within
Sizzling coals are drowned by the flood of many sins
Reaching out a hand, feeling for something to hold
Finding only garbage, when searching for gold
Eyes looking up into empty air
Hoping, wishing answers were there
Not wanting to sound retreat, yet seeing only one course
Waiting for nothing, something to rescue by force
Unable to walk, to sit, to stand
Holding nothing within the hand

2016 note: Reading this poem 24 years later, it seems I was just a step removed from atheism or at least agnosticism. I referred to “never really accepting [the Truth] as real”, despite “knowing” it. My journals at the time do not mention the emotions that went into this poem; instead I wrote that I was reading inspirational books on prayer and attempting to get my life back in line with my religion.

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