The hour: the hour was grey and heavy laden
The ground was cool and damp when my eye fell upon that fair maiden.
A collared jacket pulled up to her chin
A vague smile stretched across the ashen light as I thought about her uncharted skin.
I knew that we were foreordained to dance.
Her hand would be mine if given the chance.

The taste of bitter wine was on my lips, and someone else's hand was placed upon her hips on that day in what was a
cold
sober
October

A bell: a bell that tolls for lost souls has me (cringe) stone white.
Thirteen strikes move me closer, and I dodge each cavernous hole in my adverse plight.
The name that each leaf whispers is Crisp and Wither.
Her heroine eyes beckon me to come hither for I draw near and nearer, on that cold
sober
October

The misty cold.
The misty cold...
'Twould be a blazing fire within my bones if not for that ****** misty cold.
Warm me now; I take thy hand with thy ring that I place upon thee from the kiss of the sea.
One day I too will greet thy queen and upon her sleeve she will bear my love as we walk down that isle on All Hallows' Eve.
I take thy hand and place upon thee the kiss of my sea.

All is naught or ill forgot; for I stand ***** upon that plot that dear October bought.
Filling my head with sense and thought and hoping my love would soon be sought upon that tomb that I too will rot.
In the misty cold, crisped and withered, toiled and rot; I want her mine but she is not.

So here I am, hungover in that
Bleak
sober
October.