Octpowrimo is almost done.
Covered in ashen grey and dusty dun.
For what it has given, it now is owed.
To this event I shall compose an ode.
What started in leafy fire has ended in winter rime,
A dying coal of word, meter, and rhyme.
The varied parts grow more than the 31 day sum.
Fun for most, heart rending for some.
We've stepped out on a limb and broken the bough.
We've let arrow straight words twang from our bow.
The comments were 'the bomb' and a balm to read
Choosing not to break ego's already bruised reed