The Blues

Not a word to say.Nothing to unravel this grief.

Unfathomable reasons for this bed of thorns.  

Piled up detriments and prejudices.

Heart can bare no more scars. 

Heavy with dubiety, faith and hope.

Solitude is all that is known. 
Kith and kin around,

yet lonesome dawns upon.

Maw’s become numb, 

tired asking for help

and asking to lend ears. 

Not one to trust. 

Not one to heed the wounds. 
No, it is not an itch to scratch 

or a burn to iatric.

A dark cloud shrouding,

a soul to heal, 

nights to cry 

and days to muse. 

Living in disguise.

Eccedentesiast, that’s what you call. 
Hollowness and blemishes under the eyes

Colours faded to grey. 

Monster haunting within. 

Hands cut and dog-tired.

Notice any of it? 

Hear it doing the talking? 

No? Then don’t bother calling it dim witted. 
To those in agony;

Every dark cloud has a silver lining,

Every caterpillar was stuck for better.

Fate is bad? That’s just a cliche. 

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