It was a cold, cold late October eve,
the moon sat just above the trees.
Crunch, crunch, the fallen leaves complained –
as their once vibrant lives now only maimed –
by the weight of my steps over them.
That I should crush them in my eagerness,
to go where I may.
What future beast shall come to trample my grave?
In my afterlife of heaven or gray….
And will I disdain him that privilege to go where he may?
That my fallen old soul was once young and played?
When souls met and loved and lived –
to nothing now but dust on a walk way,
Uncaring that my own life meant something.
As he walks over my remains.
Softly my settling dust will whisper, “But I was.”