The two women who weep
Sob and sulk in their own commotion.
They both live atop a hill,
Just above the ocean.
One cries for herself,
The other for her, too.
The first cries before the sea so green,
The second cries below the sky so blue.
The former female hides in her covers,
While the latter lady hides there, too.
The first eats nothing but nibbles of toast,
While the second drinks nothing but the tea she brew.
One woman stays awake all night,
And the other sit wide-eyed, too.
The former fell ill and died shortly after,
The latter stopped crying and bid her adieu.
She now sleeps soundly at night,
And cries no more.
She drinks spirits and wine,
And has feasts galore.
She no longer hides between sheets and mattress,
And spends evenings at ***** in a red satin dress.
Gentlemen among many call to her daily,
As she blushes in a flattered flirt and smiles gaily.
She forgot all about her dearest friend,
And lived well and prosperous until the end.
Ah, a poem about how sorrow can be considered a companion, a comfort, a state of mind to sync with, but when forgotten, tossed aside, gotten over, life can become a lot more than just depression.