It is November again and I am begging to be loved –
was it love when Cleopatra brushed up against me,
giving into the changing of the millennium?
The bite of an asp is rarely poisonous.
I do not want to kill another gardener, I wish to
be touched like you, your lover caressing you in the sun.
But no – I lie in wait, in the gray landscape. Sometimes
I imagine the rocks whisper to me, and I tell them
my secrets, confess to them my sins.
I tell them of another spurned lover that harvested
my brother for her own ends.
For my brother to be held, for a moment before death,
what did that feel like?
This mountain is much older than you or I.
The craggy sides make me hardy, they are to blame for
my solitude. A monk hiding away, sworn to god.
For my sins will I ever know eternal peace?
It is November again and I am always begging to be loved.
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