The wind picks up the leaf along the way, sometimes the experience is turbulent, furious and violent, yet the same wind can lift the same leaf and gently, softly, kindly, lead it on a dreamy dance, of love.
Blame not the wind, fault not the leaf, for everything is as it should be and the leaf will land exactly as to is its destiny, which was an idea, once whispered gently to the wind and set forth, once formed and sewn with sinew through the vibrating yet withering veins of the little leaf.

Shout as you might but your shouts are not louder than the wind. Be moralistic then but still your morals smash and crash upon the rocks of illusion, maybe not this day. Shock as you try, yours are as a resemblance of a spark fighting against a crackling storm. Preach as the teacher and your elegant quill shall someday be recalled upon by its fated owner, though that will be upon a darker, restless hour.

Many have eyes but few can see.

Credits: writing  ©justme; Image @CatrinPhoto; All rights reserved