Let them fall.
Listen to the peaceful flow of descending golden beauty. Feel the essence of freedom whistling so elegantly through the locks of your dirty blonde hair. Look naively at the purely coloured petals, so dangerously beautiful. Smell the scent of innocence, so still, yet swaying freely in the palm of the winds grasp. Touch the base of the beauty, the structure of the innocence, so sturdy, broad and humble. Let them guide you, let the pure surrounds flow through your veins and support your suffering, for you desire only the purest cure.
On the edge of your entire existence, images vaguely drifting through your mind. Stand strong; let no metal demon determine your fate. Let it not pierce through your confidence as it entered your lung. Breathe freely; breathe in the cure of perfection. Never let an object of such pain stop your journey for your life has led you to this moment. Stand proud with the badge of your nation resting above your heart. Your knees will not hit the floor surrendering to the ground; you will not mirror the movement of these golden leaves.
If surrounded by such natural beauty, why does the light feel dark and dismal? Around the birth of new life, floats the mind of a life taken so freely. The bullet guided by the aim of such terror, soars viciously through the bitterness of the fresh air until it meets its end, the end for not just the bullets voyage across the ocean of air but the solider fighting for his nation.
The leaves seem much less beautiful, the feeling of perfection smoothly faded into the past. If the cure is so strong, save him, let him remain in the fight for freedom. Fighting so viciously in a war far from his beliefs, leading brave young men into their fate of death. His conscience was far from clear.
His life was such a pleasure before, nothing seemed to pierce his endless happiness. His confidence was never blurred by the unfaithful actions of a distraction; he let it remain so clear that he seemed to glow with pride. Strolling up the street, the sky seemed untouched; clouds had seemed to disappear for the pleasure of his sight. He had an arrogance about his walk like he was skipping, yet he seemed unaware of his certainty that he was the best they had to offer.
Now he has surrendered, his knees married to the chilled ground, his eyes blurred like the state of his conscience. Never had a man of such pride fallen to his knees in unquestionable surrender. The bullet that so swiftly entered his glow, had danced him to his knees. A single tear falls down the brittleness of his face, for now his actions have mirrored that of the leaves. His chest towers to the ground and his face rests so sourly over the brightness of a single flower. Around him the leaves still fall, yet there are uncountable leaves, does this also mirror that of the war? Does each golden leave represent a life taken without question? If so no cure can save them, no beauty can bring them back to the pureness that once filled them.
React!