Sweet Melancholy
-Sweet Melancholy-
Limbs shot with a breeze on the neck.
I digress. With the pigment of widow’s wail calling for atonement.
I hated my father, but not my dad. Oh...How times change. Hold both dear, it’s the notion that’s suppressed.
The cries of morning are heard in the night. Tears shed are bittersweet, like iron.
Dead on all accounts, except the outside.
Copyright © Mr Pickles | Year Posted 2022
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