A half night of sleep. Solid thoughts you can’t weep.
Conversations with regret.
Morning joy cometh,
But- just- not -yet.
These hours are preset,
For wishing to forget,
For the letting up of memories that just don’t let.
For the wishing of sunrise’s erasure powers.
For the abandonment of thick
For the lonesome strolls down memory lane
You walk, you walk. Again. Again.
Then I hope to remind you while on that lane.
That even the pain of living,
is living the same.
Copyright © 2012 Nichelle Calhoun