written by: Ronald B Conway
It’s mid-November; cold as hell,
A worried sky like dirty cotton.
The smell of wood smoke tries to cheer
With gentle mem’ries near forgotten.
The walk to lake shore easy now;
Meadow grasses long since perished.
I hold my melancholy close
Like treasures I have loved and cherished.
The water not yet frozen; black,
And lies as still as death entrapped.
The kinder days of autumn mock
My futile struggle to adapt.
A quiet nearly overwhelms
As if was draped a heavy weight.
I try to rid this malaise spirit,
Lest to all I seem distrait.
A rain begins; no sleet, like needles.
Each droplet strikes a tiny bell.
And in my head a song starts ringing;
A song as sad as love and hell.