By Jon von Nottingham
Between now and the solstice
the sun seems to die,
and to think that I,
nearly succumed
to the Alcatraz glum
of low serotonin.
Oh crisp morn of October,
you pulled me through door
and here we are are, instead;
these insipid Inspirlings,
left to gnosh
upon one anothers
creative flesh.
October, you dazzle me so.
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