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.