Deep lines ploughed his dark furrowed brow
He was lost in his world full of sorrow
For try as he might to shake off such thoughts
He was plagued by thoughts of a sad tomorrow.

It had been such a long, long time
Since he’d held his pen to write
So much happiness had deserted him
Though still he sits there at dead of night.

There was a kind of happiness
But it was so muted somehow
A laugh, restrained, and quieter
They get by, though sometimes, how?

And yet his mind could never rest
So much he still wanted to say
But now, again, seemed not the time
He’d wait, perhaps another day.

He carefully closed his writing book
And put down his fountain pen
He wiped away a single tear
While inside his heart felt broken again.

©Joe Wilson – Sad thoughts at the dead of night…2018