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Sorrow sits like a nightingale waiting for dusk,

As the sun slips archly from the sky,

It’s lush lullaby drifts through my mind…

A familiar refrain :

An earworm of sadness.


In daylight I can enjoy the memory of you,

I can smile at the things you said,

Relish your love laden ways…

But the night is a landscape of loss,

And the empty choke of misery,

Is the vacant space beside me,

A black-hole that sucks out light,

From body and soul.


At dawn,the fingers of love,

radiate and illuminate,

A stealthy sustenance which turns the night terrors

Into vague misty shapes only half-baked,

ungainly, and unworthy,

I don’t want or need them,

Sorrow is a pustulent sore…

A recurrent disease not cured by modern medicine…

only time will heal it…

only time… And love.




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