My Mourning Period. My self-imposed fate.

I have 40 days grace to mourn the hands of fate,
But did it begin when last I heard your sweet nectared voice refuse to sing?
Or when your strong and loving hands typed such embittered short goodbyes?
Or further still does it begin when last I held and kissed your face?
Though in this connected age I still cannot be sure if reality or pixels is the new norm.

But hark this and know that it is true.
Though its been a month since last we cuddled so forlornly in muddled blue.

Forever will I love and stay true,
To the vision I hold,
of Me and of You.

For me it is no frustrating jigsaw,
One of life’s many puzzling sideshows.
I saw and held it close,
Clear and red raw.
Together we once kept it afloat.
These wrinkling hands will be cut worse still,
As I cling on deep and hold it dearer still.

Though the clarity of you will fade,
Very soon as you as you slip,
further inside that darkened shade.
No hope from returning from the lights of “Individuality’s” bright haze.
know that you unknowingly, acknowledged, unwise a decision to remain adrift.


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