My sorrow, she comes to
me when lifeless apartment
complexes with windows
like cardboard
boxes with holes punched
in them replace the
honey chested,
sweet, ashen-winged thrush
with her euphonious,
polyphonic birdsong,
and echoes of
who I’ve become
are the only voices
in my mind,
saying, “You’re forever failing
and falling into a
fading symphony;
you’re forever falling
and failing like
a fading symphony.”
I wish I could let her go;
I wish I didn’t hold her dear.
I wish I could see past her;
I wish she didn’t stay.
But life has taught me that
sometimes dog-eared, worn
books give us the best knowledge,
reprimanding and edifying us,
reproaching and elevating us.
Suffering refines us
in fires of grit,
in a stony forge
and then imbues us
with the greatest of muses.
The women in my life appear
disappear, and love’s both
lost and regained,
but in the softest nights
when no one’s near,
and I long for
a hand to grasp,
my sorrow,
she comes to me,
and she’s here to stay.
Ordinary Person 
Leave a Reply