In the midst of November
where the signs of life has died,
no one notices the winds gentle sobs
beneath the flickering lampposts.
Foot prints are left in the shadows
as dead as the ones who's living.
Crawling roots extend their fingers
through leaf filled, muddy gutters.
Fallen dreams turn their back to me
and I fumble in the icy darkness.
The only sound that can be heard
is the muted emptiness in my soul.
Entangled in a ball of barbed wire
the silhouette of pain is growing.
I cling desperately to the living,
in the midst of November.
© Copyright 2013 by Sannel Larson. All rights reserved
