From the window of my frigid office, I sit and look out at a street, emptied of life, dusted with defeated leaves bested by their season. Telling end to days of warmth, and the arrival of a new cold. Here I wait, here I look.
As the fated leaves of fall drop and whither, one must wonder if their schools of thought teach hope and chance. It is in this office I fight against the change of my own skin, as I feel myself clinging. Here I wait, here I look.
The Number Kevin 
Aha, so there is a poem of yours here. I really like the imagery in this, it totally captures those bleak office days we all experience at some stage.
Thank you, thank you. Poetry is so hard for me. I only get good responses when I don’t try very hard. If I over think it, it never does well.
I think that’s the same for everyone. In my experience writing from the heart translates into verse a lot more effectively than writing from the head (ie over thinking it). This one is nice though, short and to the point, which makes it even more emotive.