Not a one comes to rake the leaves.
They appear to dissipate, naturally.
Not a one comes to hedge the stone.
The wreckage ascends, on its own.
the dimple to a wrinkle.
With mistakes in hand.
I know nothing will ever pan out,
are my vain attempts to tow the line.
I fear no choice has ever been mine.
Not a one of my steps.
Not one provoked by my time.
The dew cups on my every hardened leaf.
And, soon, it is gone.