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!
Copyright © Paula Larson | Year Posted 2006
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