Too much for me.
A pen laid by my pillow.
It sleeps with me. November
trees I imagine
I am destroyed.
I remember them.
O cold eye that hurts
you threaten to show me a world
voiceless and
sightless, a
plain.
stop here. You gaze around
what do you see?
not a home.
not a resting place.
Take me back to the place where snow fell
and I was a day
plucked from the summer of vision.
Hiding in a darker shadow
and still singing of spring.
metonymy4u 
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