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Writing Your Grief: Melancholy

Evening falling – a soft lamenting the lake draws me near.

My heart is cold; isolating me from its pain.
This head once brimming with ideas knows nothing.
I sit here for hours accomplishing nothing;
contemplating everything.
My hands feed me non-stop and yet I starve.
For your presence. For your laugh.
People mill about, talking and laughing.
I am alone.

Cicadas drown out the noise. You are gone.

Published inGrief

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