Sad

The clouds drip their goodbyes.
Puddles are mirrors,
Reflecting darkness.
Cold lonely chill
Envelops
But gives no warmth,
Closes in
And stills the heart.
The blood
Runs black
In the veins.
Ink without pen,
It starves.
It does not nourish.
And all
Is lost
To the grip
Of unceasing pain.

essesq April 2010