November

This month is mercifully slipping by

reptilian sharp 

with the grace of bird formations.

I expect more from the war

within the the plaster of my walls,

I fall back for a split second

but always walk ahead tall.

I've worn the blackest boots,

my eyes are twilight dark, 

from my soul comes words

from my lips they depart.

My dreams are no longer demolished.

My dreams are rising from the ash,

souvenirs I couldn't part with

are falling into the recent past.

I'm packing a jar of fireflies,

and leaving the rest behind.

No,

it's sadly untrue,

I'll be remembering from time to time.