november comes around like a carousel
one not with pretty horses
but with haunting spirits
calling me to come and ride

i turn away
but the music draws me in
it's the same every year

days grow shorter
some days the sun never shines
lifelessness is my midday
eternity is my night

every year the road is a little more rutted
the wayside overgrown
spring is months away and the life it brings
throws not a line for me

sketch a likeness
with a dull pencil
on an old brown bag
of a balding severed head
embedded in cement
with only the crown of the skull exposed
walked upon
but not noticed

tack this likeness to a trunk
in a grove of scrub trees
in a mid-western state
on a drizzly day
and walk away
don't worry,
no one will even notice

It was a summer evening,
with a flicker in the western sky
and cicadas blurring out the remaining sound
of the oncoming night....
I stepped out into the swelter
with an additional chore of mopping my brow
when time disappeared.

A season later,
time was revived,
cool crisp air and the smell of falling crispy leaves,
cascading colors
dieing a soon death.
Briefly, consciousness returned,
but the grayness of the upcoming winter lay itself upon me
with the curse of bitter coldness dangling from the fray.

Seasons pass me along,
tossing me like a leaf in a current.
One year, ten years, a lifetime is past.
Life is meaningful
only if it is held near to the heart,
but stashed in a cupboard,
it drains away.