Witness

When the shooting star

was trying

to pause between

life and death

it was calling for help;

the sky was silently

watching.

When the severed leaf

was trying to rest

between breaths

it was screeching for help;

the tree, a witness

became its shelter,

but it was too light,

way too detached

to stay put.

A somnambulist writer

was watching the sky

underneath the tree.