I made it through another setting,
survived another pull of what is underneath,
and I hear a mountain cry.
You, you never hear a sound.
November is inside the why -
I wake or walk or wilt,
or dance for daring in the darkness,
then - lash back in, to dampness.
I reach across a public park,
stretch ashen and bare and never really gain,
just wash there,
whisper why I can no longer see.
It comes with the insight
of what grates my outer layers,
what strains my organs till they're sore.
I can follow passing into winter
freeze the death inside my skin for months on end,
and wonder when the thaw will come,
rob me of my madness, leave me there in peace.
November traces sadness on the sidewalks,
it rakes the anger from my walls, and I hide,
aside a city calling, along a river so ill-stricken