Black Leaves. Poem by Peter Vealey

Picking off the black leaves.
The debris I do not need
Still the daily routine,
Chastens in the eves.
Amongst the black leaves,
You never saw all I could be
Shut your eyes.
Laying down on the wild sleeve
Of my heart.
The black leaves.
Pick them off and still they fall.
Brown, gold and awful cold.
Phone another waiting soul.
Listen to the yawning hole
That you left,
Amidst the black leaves,
I was always more than
You wanted to see.