November is full of change,
And I swear that on my own grave.
And soon after November passes,
I swear on my mothers ashes,
Nothing will be the same.
When all you want to do is create,
But all your creations are struck solid-
As if passed through by the gaze of Medusa.
Massive waves of destruction churn and rage,
As if tragedy was the true mother of Aviendha.
And October’s anxieties are much too real
In the face of November’s wounds to heal.
December’s arrival is both relief and restraint;
From grandmother wreaths and 4 year old birthday cakes.
20 came and went and so far I have not succumbed
To the throes of dear death’s mighty blows
And I guess the real test is surviving the age of 21.
And see the difference
between my parents,
To see the difference
between me and them.
November’s change is soon to arrive-
It will not carry me from the burden of being alive,
And sometimes I can’t tell if that plea is for something beyond immortality:
The kind of thing the mortal wouldn’t believe.
November’s change is hot on our tails
And I know, that if all else fails,
I have a love stronger than the
Intermittent call of death.
Meet me on the other side,
The in betweens and underneaths
Meet me in our last breath
And the glaze that covers our eyes.
Meet me where we can make every end meet.
