The last poem of the series and the last one I wrote.

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

Ecclesiastes 3:1-2 KJV
All leaves fall. 
They age and grow old.
Weary, they answer nature’s call. 

Fall, fall, fall,
Against time they fold.
Are they not so pretty when they fall?

So pretty,
Even those with mold,
Ripped memories, scarred forms, gain pity.

Don’t pity.
Thoughts keep them ahold.
See to ones left in a committee.

Hear their call.
Learn from stories told,
From the surrounding ones left to bawl.

All leaves fall.
Old souls, young and bold,
They all fall, we bawl, the world goes on.

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