November (#280)

Early, fleeting rays of sunlight gave way
to desolation grave, whole and proper:
what was presumed a mediocre day
began with ‘games’ gone awry and nowhere.

Having fled the scene quite crudely, swiftly,
November’s wet tears held me in stasis.
Of mere minutes; I sighed regrettably.
Thru cold winds I trudged to work, if remiss.

Empty faces were all I saw: blank, void.
It seemed time had left me, dug a vast rut.
Does salvation come to those who have toyed
with fin, the fiercest one of any cut?

A trembling kept me ’wake for far too long
for I detest what on­ly will prolong.