I Am the Sorrow

Some days I do not just feel sorrow

Some days I am the sorrow

I am the grey sky

That threatens spitting snow

I am the heaviness in your limbs

Your shuffling gait

Reluctant to get

Where you are expected


Some days

I am the sorrow

The stark, leafless, skeletal

Branches of the trees

Dwelling in the in-between

Of not quite late autumn

Not quite early winter

That borderline of the seasons

When light is dwindling

And the darkness grows


Some days

I am the wistfulness

That longing for your younger self

When time stretched endlessly

Before you

The world full of possibility

And the crisp taste of golden fruit


Some days

I am the very ache in your chest

That you feel

When you despair of ever

Finding your soul mate

Who must be out there wandering

In this same twilight

Desperately longing

To find you



      1. No need to be sorry. Poetry is to feel, and I didn’t get stuck in the feeling. Poe got it right (and wrote accordingly):

        “If a poem hasn’t ripped apart your soul; you haven’t experienced poetry.”



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