November you are my favorite color. You are always the late folk that is unremembered. Cold but gentle. Some people don’t get your purpose. Because you are not for everyone. You are the judge of fall. You are the look of hunger in a man with heat, is enough to lift an old woman from her knees. As a piece of confusion, he’s been looking for. He was declining to die, but now he’s coming back for more. The speculation of an old man when gets you apart, you can’t see what is coming, but there is a tree standing all stick and bones. You are a blind joke, which purpose is not to make you laugh. You are the saddest of the year. Of wailing winds, and naked woods with foggy air. You are the confusing echoes of people screaming and birds crying for homes. You are a closed window with fire in eyes. You are a weak heart of which injury was made back in spring when everything is born, and it blows in the summer, fulfilling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the coolness thunderstorms come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight when you need it most, it stops. What an old soul you are, barely can move but never wants to die.
This November there seems to be nothing to say.
I ask myself all the time... Who Am I? What Am I?
You see, so far I found what I am not, who I am not. The rest of all I am still searching it.
One thing for sure I know, instead of blood I have ink in my veins.