In this November

i’m going barefoot to touch the nothingness in this november.

there's so much room standing in eternity

frozen floor, cold, still

my breath is like an illusive ghost

haunting past the window sill 

the silence is darker than night these november days.

i'd write a poetry on the quiet someday

when candle-lit gloom whispers, says

nothing at all.

so much stillness for the words unspoken

the nights are lasting,

laying inert in my tundra bed.

will you be terrified when I sing and fog resembles my voice?

the days are echoes of a maddening lullaby

aching in solitude, falling apart

for the night won't give when novembers die

soaking in the last warmth of fall.

once in this dreary november

somewhere a house must've sighed

the muted doors must've heard

just enough to break the quiet.

the rain had come when the grey sky cried

all the dying trees murmured,

i tried, i tried, i tried.