The 2nd November

There- again- for the second time-
Comes the hollow knock at my door-
And the pick tapping on the brick
Of the walls built late on cold nights.
November tapping once again
Reminding me I can’t get free
Of the walls that keep me away
From the mason that sealed me tight.

The doors slammed shut one at a time-
And behind each—the brick piled high
With the mortar spread in-between.
The Doors- mortar and bricks hold me
In the cell of my November
Leaving me just to remember
All that brought this prison about.
Desire’s choice blocking my voice

Formed the bricks of actions and words
Sealed with the mortar of desire
Trying to hide the obvious
For reasons clouded by warm breath
Mixing with the cold winter’s air.
This is the tomb of November
Where my happiness played with me-
Where I feel like the knocking sounds.