Sitting around the circular table,
Heads strung down with the realization,
That you have to come to terms again
With how temporary everything is
How the beginnings are only a means to an end.

The lamps are all shining bright together,
A rare occurrence for the living room,
Only adding to the seriousness of the situation,
The need to focus on what to do.

Wishing your hand was wide enough
To carry all the right decisions,
So that nothing could be out of hand,
Nothing could cross the peripheries
Of your man made plans.

You look up through the ceiling
And your heart does all the talking for you,
With every jab and every ache
It writes a paragraph with pure anger,
But then you plead with everything at stake

And with the first stripes of dawn,
You're pulled to your dark cold bed,
With pillows like rocks floating on water,
And covers that suffocate your body,
To close your eyes, you're just not ready
Not ready to let it go yet.