The skies have long
taken on a sad grayness
hence, the colours of
autumn have turned to a drabness
and, the crisp air
brings a chill that provokes the skin
awake to a heightened
level of awareness.
One must walk the paths
away and within
with more expedient
steps as the candlelight flickers.
Noting that a sense of
containment may forgo all past sin
one must still account
for all that is and that may have been.
Whilst the bear may
sleep away in the cave’s wickers
the sparrows nonetheless
must work with a quicken beat
as winter’s grip will
neither forgive nor forget the frail and the sicker;
stoke up the cinders and
log the fireplace so to warm the cider liquor
For if, thy name is
called, be it to a heaven’s seat
Or be it to an eternal
torment laid upon an inferno’s bed,
One must relinquish to a
sense of being; a celebration in total replete
As November’s
melancholies are driven ghosts chased in retreat.
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