Enero, 17

Sadness, not the tear down the cheek
kind, nor the raging howling
vengeful kind, but sadness, that pit
still undigested through decades
in an acid stomach, sadness,
the cold staring out on a flat
blanket of snow, the secret chest
in your head where you keep letters
and questions, sadness with its deep
convictions never promised us
anything, never swore common
decency, nor a moment’s rest,
never said blood would clot, dressings
would not soak through, scars would heal,
pledged no form of medication
nor a cure, promised us nothing
but its unending affection.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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