This great November
The clouds seek to hurt my eyes
So I tell them I am already blind
But alas they just sit up there
And chat about old facts to which they doubt
The insects seek to infect my mind
But I know of the darkest corners
Of there kind
But even with this they still persist
In there plans to make me sick
The books seek to fill my head with lies
Of places and people out of mind
And of rivers and mountains corroded by time
They tell me listen or it will be my demise
But I will hold fast and the tell them the
Truth about the past
