Classic Poem

Words drift between me and the street,
Torn words of song that swirl like brown
And yellow leaves about the feet
Of people passing up and down.

With purpose hurt as a broken stem,
With music lulled to drifting sighs,
Whimsically the wind sweeps them
Across my eyes.

And flings them, always like a brown
Flurry of leaves, along the street,
Where mistily they are trampled down
Under the quiet thud of feet. . . .

Torn words go from me in the mood
Of time, and gently cease to be,
And yet I find their passing good
So dreamfully they go from me.