November

November
Starts it’s brewing
In August’s free safe glow.
Like a poisoned
Festive pudding
It stews
And grows cunning,
Knows it’s purpose;
To strike
Small steady blows
At the centre
Of me.
To pour
Paint stripper
On any colour
In my life.
The bottom’s fallen out
Of me.
Head full of tar.
I curl and wait for Christmas.
Wait for the new light
When my cells might
Calm
Settle
And my eyes
Unglazed
Can see
At last
What’s true.

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