Untitled thoughts…

Heavy mist
Matched his mood
Everywhere so damp
Once again
Brought on his cramp.
Still he supposed
It could be worse
Rising sadness
Bitter and terse.
Besides, others now
To think about
Behind the mask
His heart cries out.
First’s the worst
Is what they say
It feels like the first
Each single day.
And at Easter
Birthdays, Christmas too
He dons the mask
It’s what he’ll do.
And all the sadness
All the tears
Stretch out before
In endless years.
Where once they sat
Round table, four
That empty space
Leaves hearts so sore.

©Joe Wilson – Untitled though…2016

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