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.

Advertisements

Author:

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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s