I miss November

I miss November
and I miss the way you kissed me.

I thought if I were free
I could be strong, and brave
too. Instead I find myself
an ineffectual knave.

A slave to fashion and
ambition, doomed to
strive for phantoms weakly,
womb to tomb.

The right striving is
to find the proper shackles.
There is a limit that can
umlimit, a relieving yoke.

For this, and for wisdom, and for
the infinite sky and
the possibilities of a day
and for the simple things and
the honest and strong
and for the striver and
for the lion of truth
and the lamb of meekness
I invoke the muses
and the myriad gods
and the strength of my fathers
to aid my singing and effect
my rescue.

And while I sing I'll miss November
and the chains that were better than freedom
and I'll miss the way you kissed me
and the way you never will again.