and move back to November,
before the world ends
and the cards go out.
exaholics,
I see you thrillers,
look to the river, my friends,
or let the end be the end.
I am left on the stage,
just to play with the past,
grasp what might've been,
and what could've lanterned.
disappear sharp,
and deem mornings
as nothing but leaves,
I am he who secedes.