Extricating fine threads of languished sorrow from senses
by RoseAnn V. Shawiak
of the living.
Folding in upon hearts of sorrowful harvesting, always
uncontrollable from the start, not envied, but not able
to part from it.
Sneaking along sinister rails of unrecognizable failure,
secure in the false knowledge of someone else's wisdom.
Bluest colors of an inner heaven, separated from the
stillness of the soul, played gently, like a violin,
afraid to really let go and begin again in another sphere
Rallying behind intense sorrow, trying desperately to
make things right, failing repeatedly, unable to reach
ends of tell-tale wrenching sorrow.
Spatial silver hovering, reflecting watches of deepest,
darkest nights, never attaining realms of others glory
Forever silent, laid upon the mantle of deadened joy,
unable to seek the freedom so seldomly enjoyed by many.
Unfeeling, saturation of daily harmonious living does
not exist, cannot exist anymore this time in a woeful life.