November

           Unreal city. Unseasonal cold.
           The snow cares not that leaves are there.
           Hollow and cold is time.
           Gray days and silent.
           Clear wind and diffuse sun
           Mean little by themselves,
           And silence grows along with cold
           And winter has not even come.
                      He watches his life like a fallen angel,
           Floating above, and helpless,
           Something about free will.
           Moving along the concrete walks
           Covered with snow, and floating,
           He looks at an empty park bench and smiles
           As memory protects the future
           And blurs the past.
                      It will be a long, cold and silent winter.
 
Email the AuthorBill Ames        

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