I often feel grief Like an eighth and final continent An island set to tropical time.
It is a place held away from self, With short and brittle correspondence Of letters in jars on another man’s dime
they speak another language here and unfamiliar farce of words soft like (my) beds it’s a bitter dance of syllables spoken slow and steady like a dirge is read
My Idling archipelago Rambles like a train of mismatched Thoughts, Only ever in halves for wholes this place has only lost
I feel it like a dragging and a pulling farther and farther down and when I lie awake at night sometimes I think that I’ll never come round
and when it’s grief surrounding me it’s oh so faint like god twiddling his thumbs the witching hour supposedly has come too late for any damage to be done
and though I have loved you as a thief I’ll tell you love like this is only sold and you cannot fend off the grief it’s drained me of my grace and made me full
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