Petulance has no place
in healing grace.
Sorrow,
in her state,
sees death take a bow to Wit,
well lived.
She leaves me asking how can I give,
when abuse steals charity
from my hard working hands?
Petulance is scheming in his head
as Sorrow Learns To Cope, alone,
with unfamiliar emptiness.
Unfamiliar- here am I, in between
nonsense and a daydream
of what used to be.
A life I can no longer see.
So death bids a bitter hello again,
gifting me a second breath
while I watch the exhales
of another wave goodbye.
