It Is.

It Is.
- Me

Bygone days are withered leaves.
They burgeon forth, fall in the air, get crumbled at our feet.
And destiny lets them kiss the dust for good...
All in a flick.
Matter of time, somebody said.
It is.
Memory serves to be the miniscule barn of those fallen leaves.
Wizened they may be, still not rotten.
Even in oblivion's curse.
Ah and keep us going in our walks.
Yeah en route the gonna-wither leaves of today,
Just before they too accede to that selfsame silly barn.
All in a flick.