Rainless November

Resembling my soul, November leaves seem exhausted, slumbering under sleeping trees, gently rustling in the breeze. Selfish skies are covered in grey clouds, but the angst in the air remains stale. It's been fourteen years, yet his ghost still appears in the mist, remaining silent, as death never speaks, but I've become content without answers. In the drizzle of disappointment, I'm fading away without the rain. There is no one to listen to the grief nested within my heart, so I'm unable to process the torment. The birds on my window seem numb without a morning chorus - I feel their sorrow. So, I listen to the songs he used to sing - how his life is of no use to no one. Each word engrained in whiskey memories, a reminder of weeping in corridors long forgotten. But, I wonder have I become an replica of him? If so, then burn my effigy into nothingness, for I've become tired from existing within shattered seasonal flashbacks. Yet, I'll wear this 'Joker' smile, so my mum cannot fathom my muffled misery. In the eternal silence - I wonder if you will wait for me across the river and guide me beyond the unknown verge. So much is hidden behind the veil, where only words can remove the obstruction, but I'll always be an adjective to your misunderstood metaphor.