In the midst of a cold November night
tears falling from the dark in silence
not one sound piercing, or one single light.
blackness giving us nothing but utter pretense.

the misted air cloaked with contrite tapping the exposed souls of the night
rides along the cracked frost heave into the abyss of the wilted sense
guided by merely an undulated tone of right.
running from itself within its own defense.

'Twas the dawn of a bitter November light
and frozen tears irrigated days fence
no thing knew of the blackness in the night.
or the surroundings that shriveled its sense.