Trees In November — A Poem

Fading green turns to orange and red
Smoke filled nostrils, vanilla sky.
Carefully past throngs of dead,
Waiting for our turn to die.

The ways are blocked and somber.
Cold winds whip and blow.
Swaying to the tick of time,
Like trees in November.
Trees sighing in November.

Entropic forces burdening reality
Forgetting what we thought was right
Rusted — decaying creativity
Oppressive shadows of the light

The way is blocked and somber
Biting winds rip and shred
Bending to the tock of time
Like trees in November
Trees dying in November

There is little we can do
Damage cannot be undone
Looking forward but moving back
Eyes burned by the setting sun
Running scared to beat the devil
The fatal flaws of being the one

Order fleeting, darkness still
Changed forever and ever changing
No time left to waste or kill
The entire world is aging

The way eternally blocked and somber
Frigid winds howl and scream
Falling silently in measured time
Like trees in November
Trees lost in the mists of November

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Published by

Michael Hibbard

I am a writer of dark fantasy and southern gothic literature

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