Eyes fly at half mast
in the hours
long before dawn.
Sleep was fitful,
unrestful.
A place of dark dreams,
fraught with memories.
Outside,
that bitter hand is setting in.
The cold.
The abandoned.
The calamity.
Like deep personal loss,
we can never be ready for it.
Like intense pain,
our minds occlude
all memory of it.
I am sure,
if we could recall
even a tenth of our misery,
we would all be mad.
Maybe we all went mad
long ago
Could that be
why this,
first, dark morning of winter
feels like a nightmare?
HG – 2019
Love this one ♥♥