rubbage

The leaves have turned to dust. I guesss I have as well. Moments last too long on the golden highway home, and love hurts as its scent lingers in the air. The love that should be in my arms, should be in my soul and my fingertips. The leaves are gone now, washed away with the golden blackened rain and the skies are constantly moving in and out. I suppose my life is like those leaves, once golden, full, brooding toward the home I loved. Anymore, I am not golden leaves, but washed aside roads as the winter comes into salvage what's left of the rain. One moment I was there, silent, golden inside that home that held me close. Now they find me as the dusty rubbage tossed to the side of the road, not worth the time spent to clean them up.