Adore Something Dead

I wish I were a tree

During this time of year.

Trees of all sorts are praised

On all their bright colors.

There are reds and bright pinks,

Oranges, yellows, and brown.

Once a year, people stare.

People stop just to gawk.

And adore something dead.

I don’t understand how

People enjoy the sight

Of millions of dead leaves.

It is like once a year,

Death is seen as beauty,

but only towards trees.

If that thought were to keep

its meaning with humans,

Then I would be seen as

Most beautiful of all

For I am dead inside.

But we don’t celebrate

My lack of emotion,

Or anyone’s infact.

We lock them up in rooms

And say they’re the problem.

Are we? Are we really?