Leave,s

My heart sounds like, the rustling leaves, that break to bring pleasantry, to your ears. What could ever be worse, than the injustice it brings, to step upon something, that once gave you, the air you breathe? What could be more painful, what could be more tragic, than that certain fall, to the ground when all, they have ever known, was the sight of the skies, atop the sands, where they knew, they do not belong? The leaves rustle. The sound of their last cry, before their eventual demise. In some ways burnt, in some ways unburied. Let alone to rot, and be forgotten. In some ways immoral, in some ways, insolent; In some ways, treacherous. Injustice, it is. To kill your own hero. Miserable, to plainly exist, without a soul. My heart beats like, the rustling leaves, that rustle to the beat of your footstep... as you walk away.