• November is cold.
    Laying amidst comforters and sheets
    And blankets.

    Unruly, unfaithful tendrils run
    Icy rivulets across my weathered
    Shoulders.

    Bright light, bright numbered light;
    It’s the only glow about the room,
    but not the only source of light.

    I Dream of Light.
    Of lamplight flickering,
    and a Stranger, a Beast in Red.

    Flickering lamplight, soft as mothwing,
    Flash malice within his stare.
    My exit, stage right.

    Bestial, hungering, but…
    No malice.
    Those flickering lights, how dare
    they trick me!

    This is Light.
    He is Light.
    A frenzied guitar riff rolls me out
    of Dreamland onto the floor

    It’s Five Minutes to Life.
    And November is cold.