It's  November and I have nowhere else to go but home, but home

It has darkened a bit and I remember I must return home, to home

Midst an aquarelle of vanished leafs
And sputtering memories
It's time to, shall I say,
But fulfilling forgetting
failed falsehoods and regrets
And yet, just as if September
still lurking in the pools of my memories

Nowhere else to turn, but here
Cornered by dead leafs, salvaged trunks
darkened by surprise
In each and every fall
the precious never dies  


Gryning Konfunderat Skymning Stimulierat
Classical Saxophonist A Lunde Garden of Eden Anderson's Lumberyard The Oval Office
Breakfast in Bratislava
The Captain's Mess
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