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.
