Grief

This solemn shore of atrophy called grief, would sail on, sail on from this moor of thief - while yesterday I smiled, and did achieve today am stricken to a nodding leave! This buckling of intent, I do perceive is more than time can counter or receive do take more time with me and yet proceed to bolster me - my actions so recede! What fondness should attain in this bereave, it is a mocking sign, its own conceive is born anew, with someone's silenced knave and never felt so sharply, now its slave! has manifested to a halting save - and captured those surrounding . . . . . true love's grave!