Darkest of afternoons
November in my soul,
home alone, once again.
The tunnel of rooms
stretch empty and silent,
sentinel, python witness,
to my splintering.
The doorbell 
is unlikely to ring
on a day as dark
as this.

The tree-tops outside
my windows, cavort
in their macabre dance,
gleeful to resonate
as I disintegrate,
slowly, but surely.
Cold westerly winds
cut into my viscera,
disappointed at finding
no blood within,
merely arid desolation.

A perfect day, really,
To end it all.

Fall like a dead weight 
into the abyss between
lunch and siesta,
should I….?
Attain, finally, 
that enviable state, 
that goes by the fanciful term,
‘oblivion’
of the eternal kind…?

Storm ravaged sparrows
arrive shrieking
at the windows
their fidgety diamond eyes
seeking refuge.
Who am I, 
to shoo them away?
Windswept myself,
and born of a thousand storms.
Could these birds truly be
the souls of the dear departed
sent to watch over me
in my hour of crisis?

Darkest of afternoons,
November in my soul,
a perfect day for endings.

But not today,
maybe not today…
I’ll hang in here awhile,
pause
analyze 
reflect
reconsider
reconstruct events,
take stock, once more,
of the balance sheet of life,
procrastinate.
Maybe, and then maybe not,
stall the death wish
for now.

Today, I might choose
to merely tend
to the shivering sparrows, 
stay alive, 
another day.