It is not in mourning that I cease to be
counted as blessed. It is not in the blackness(for at least night has stars) but in grayness &
fogs.
Do not pity me so, friend, in my wailing.
When I have forgotten (to notice the trees is when) you've lost me.
When I care no more for the aching horizon it is when
I can no longer smell the potted plants, just outside.
Because now, it takes everything within me to slip these words through my bones
like a refugee slipping through prison bars
and it takes me. It takes all of me just to say
It is not in mourning that I cease to be.
-a-
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