These blind November days,
these layers of brick and bone!
These nights of slow stars and stones
skipped across the water of the moon -
The full throated songs
of summer carried on a breath,
the blood sun burning overhead -
Death is next.
All that's left of the roses is the thorns.
What will keep you warm when your heart turns on itself?
What will keep you warm when its November and nothing else?
For Get Listed at Real Toads