Surcease
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Why, does existing have to be
a visit of time then leaves me.
Threads of my life are still unsaid.
Silently I wipe away tears
of lapsing thoughts, sorrow and fears;
throwing off spider webs of thread.
I stand by the window and gaze
at white ships depart a blue maze
they have sought to borrow ahead.
Everyday another Sunday.
Every day is silent and grey;
prison of aches and pain I dread.
Why, does existing have to be
burdensome. My mortal thoughts flee
like rain drumming at my window,
then trickles releasing a dam
leaving me brittle to exam
my own conscious; what do I know.
Surpassing life hopes as I winch
loneliness devours inch by inch.
My lips quake and swell at my low
detaching my dying cinder.
I can't take another winter
confronted with the ebb and flow,
not being able to foresee
mental skills decline as I grow
old and suppose to comfort me.
6/13/2018
Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2018
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