The Death in the Widower

By
More by this author
sleep, pretty widower

welcome to the endless noise of regret

for tommorow brings you no polite gift of solace

and grants you no permission to publicly mourn your loss

He hurts, he wants, he takes

old joy only you can nurture back to reality

for in this reality, there is no future happy

So place your holy book of comfort

under your pillow on this sorrowful morn'

sleep on your prayers

for only they can hold you tonight

resist suicide medicine

wear yellow hope on your expressions tommorow

invite hope into your eyes

but for tonight

beautiful princess of calamity

I beg of you

for it is the only snakeoil I can sell you

sleep, pretty widower.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback