November
tries to rob me of nerve,
Tries
to mob me like a nine,
The
number that symbolizes over.
I can
only wait for it to move on;
Chant
an unending novena and pray
It
won’t last like the eon it seems.
But
November is the month of never,
The
eleventh-houred month of no,
When
all my hope is negated.
It is
the month I veer off course,
The
month when verbs stop
And
others are never born.
November
is the month of venom,
When
all my progress has halted
And
the poison of my past returns.
It is
the month where I cannot rove,
The
month I can’t seem to be;
Where
I wonder if I have ever been.
November
is the month of no more,
The
month when every ember goes out,
Leaving
me shivering and cold.
It is
the month of remove,
When
the leaves are blown away
And
the world is empty and lifeless.
November
is the month of bone,
Where
the trees are bare and skeletal,
Like
an omen of a future me.
