the burial.

another,
again.

there
will be
no tomorrow.

children die.

mothers bury
the unripe fruit
of their womb.

who has
turned out
the light?

You, me and my melancholy.
And nobody fxcks harder than her.

You were told:

"You are tougher
than you think,"
When in fact that is a lie.

You are only as tough
As you think you are,

So think great thoughts,
And be as tough
As you know.

i hear the whippoorwill in the night-
it seems we have a common trait:
our voices, strongest in the dark,
with no specific audience,
echo across the fabric of time
to reach the ear unseen.
should no other creature hear our songs
that cross the face of night like rivers
it would seem to matter little;
we are our own listeners.