then, it’s Friday
it is the nature of seasons and bounty to fall
again, like dreams etched upon the gold-spoil of fools,
to aloneness, merciless, cold and hard, grasping
with long-fallen charm, to clouds of concrete grey,
an echo-less plea to unfathomed indifference
gratitude seeps tears for truth, vulgar and dear,
reaches prayer for exit before encore
wounds of ignorance, lies of love,
slash deeper, scar slowly, set unmended
sorrow bends less each moment passed, regret to
reachless empathy, the sweet rain of healing
seeds wisdom in sodden hues of memory,
cast its glance neither to soiled nor spent,
there, whence lay Love’s promise
glh
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