Then came the midst of October,
Eyes laid onto purple plaid,
Race horses tracking mud
To a gate never found.

A miserable silence heard by you and I,
Maybe others overheard too—matters not, nigh
Speak to me and I unto you;
This rare and brief existence that sparked nothing new.

And I, who sulk long and hard, never pray,
For or with you, nor the few who heard our name.
Some say other than what I claim
But never will I dare go back; by my own hand, I’d be slain.

So it *****, all’s unwell, and nothing is right,
Wherein silence is an itch and your name a light;
An angel, you shine with beauty and brain
But don't part way in my most favorite—the rain.