Dead November

Today marks the death of November. Those reds, golds, oranges and chinese yellows flutter no more. Under ones foot, walking by oblivious they lie. Tears run out their vains till they breath their last; left as brown castes of their former glory. All that is left is the heartless trampling. Oblittering all memory of their beauty is how we will survive these impending months of colorlessness... Foolish thoughts all ye philistines bear. You may drudge through in the grayness of ye mire buy not I...not I this time. For I have saved life in my portable heart. When your death comes round but a flick flick of my thumb on it's living glass and saved am I. That's right, this winter will be one of life; one of color; one of perpetual beauty.