Late November

Grey stillness
Seeping in the chillness of my mind
Fingers the stark November twigs of thoughts
That score aimless lines across the sky.

No bird
Or creature scurrying the branches
Breaks the monotony
Of isolation, sliding into winter

And in the sombre light
Of day that hardly stirs
To throw off comforters of cloud

Comfortless
My inclination yearns
Toward that lair, oblivion,
The dark caves of imagination
Deep beneath the earth
To sleep, Hadean, till the spring