November

November has always been no good to me.

Across the days,

that never seem to end,

I mourn the men,

who meant too much to me,

because they always find me,

when the leaves have long been swept away,

and I begin to walk on frozen hell.

A whole month,

wasted,

waiting somewhere in the past,

surrounded by the paths I could have followed,

but powerless to wander.