November.

Rushing and racing and spinning in circles in life's fast forward motion.

And as we clung to hope, we fell to our knees. A thousand ancient spiders bit and scratched our legs. It seeped into our minds. It poisoned all our thoughts.

And now we move so fast that we forget our purpose. Racing and colliding so chaotic.
Spinning so fast that I'm frightened I might disappear in the blur of the

burning that caught on our legs that snatched us together while we weren't looking.
It sparks into emerald green spirals that twist on forever inside of your eyes.
And we began to laugh up a storm and melted away the speed, but as we cried, we tried to find the words that would

help with the decay of our hope. Upon the soft, spongy moss, we lay our heads and our hearts down. We smelled the earth and cried until we laughed and laughed until we cried.
And then we took our tears and mixed it with the burns that covered our legs.

And a soft November rain began to float down. The spiders curled.

Slow me down, November rain. Sweet rain.

And the burned legs did not move quickly. They did not twist or run in circles.

We are the king's third son, and we cannot sleep. The words that we searched for were not home inside their tombs.

The sweet November rain gave hope to our legs, praying that disease would leave us.

We are the king's first son, and we drove our hearse straight through the rain.