First of November

Little black trunks with their yellow leaves
Swirling around in the Autumn breeze, The
First of November, heading back to town,
I was catching a bus back to a lady of mine.

Up walked a man with a slant in his jaw, the
Bus stop stage would be his Carnegie hall.
His voice uttered certainties his mind never had
Chewed, saying the government is flawed and
The country is screwed.

Crows in the branches shook themselves free,
Slapping and spanking the air of retreat.
I asked of myself what could this mean, If
Black death's messengers feared a mortal being?

Death in itself is painful to bear, but like falling
Leaves, can hang beautifully in the air.
You see, a hardship coarsely spoken shines dim
To the fair, it injures even the eyes of Lucifer's stare.

Slant jaws and obscenities are of nature made, but
Forgiveness is the treasure we made dig up with such
Spades. Yes, people are suffering, their eyes bloodies and
Broke, and in times of woe may the truth be spoke.

Yet a truth without beauty falls short in the heart,
Those who speak it seek not the stars, because
A souls that ache can shine so bright, it is this
Beauty which takes me home this night.