November Came to Me.

Without warning

November came to me

in June.

The primrose newly budding in their sun warmed beds

always a welcome harbinger

now meaningless to me

from the deep, dark quiet of my bedroom above.

The stars when they appeared seemed meant for others

capable of such things as joy,

even simple recognition,

My November revealing them as distortions,

pinpoints of lights in the torn fabric of a distant

foreboding world.

November came for the best of me

to extinguish my light,

my laughter, my peace,

leaving behind flats of nothingness,

hours, days never to be regained,

as I groped blindly across them.

Or slept. Or stared.

The world became a place

where people spoke in another language,

not my own,

when November came to me

in June.