The Year of Death

September sharpens a knife and hands it to December the year has one foot in the grave as we marvel at leaves of ember October strips trees to nude puppets as children play in their corpses scatter their bodies about the ground and burn them without remorse birds tred upon the harvest their gluttony, a foolish sum their chest-high pride and full bellies will only be consumed next month November coronates itself, a crown of ice and tin, An Antichrist of misery, A wolf in shepherd's skin December hides in the shadows and cradles the eleven months with one last breath, January steals the knife, and stabs them all to death.