I expect nothing from you November men -
men like vodka
who burn cleanly away
when put to a flame
and afford little warmth
even as bruised and gilded autumn
eases into winter's wasting embrace.
Truly, what could I ask of men
whose stars like frozen water
depict an armoured poison
known for perseverance and
- immovability -
behind which I might moor for a time
with wary arrow notched, though
rendered useless by guileful winds
and their laughing tales of elsewhere?














Comments
one small point: considering that the last stanza is one long beautiful question, why not end it with a question mark?
--
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
J. Keats
your dissatisfaction stings well.
--
The world is an eraser for these words
- Jack Kerouac
we must destroy that which contains us
I'm so pleased you enjoyed this. Thanks again.
I'm also suspicious of the bitter cold; though sometimes, too, I wonder if it isn't just projection.
Thank you for your thoughts and words.
--
Illusion is the first of all pleasures - Oscar Wilde
who burn cleanly away
when put to a flame
and afford little warmth"
Man, that's fucking brilliant.
I always find an incredibly effective meaning in all your writing, compared to the hundreds of other lacking poets.
Always great, always thoughtful.
you're welcome!
--
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
J. Keats
I'll settle for one. Thank you, really, for the praise, and that you found something thoughtful/worth thinking on.
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