Scraps of me
litter the streets,
collecting like leaves
in storm drains,
lining the beds of baby birds,
stuck and gooey
on shoe bottoms,
shadows of a life
not poorly lived,
but passing,
black bits of mildew
spotting its edges,
great conversations
brittle and fading,
the once
sturdy exterior
showing signs of
peeling.
Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
I like the imagery!