Morning Dew: Poetry


Bending to the weeping willow,
the heart is lost to reason,
wrapped in its own soliloquy 
producing tears that flow 
onto fistfuls of covers within 
which one can hide

This is no open conversation,
but internal misery unabated
that casts a gray pallor 
over a morning sky etched 
in lazy summer hues

The crystalline tears of bruised love 
bleed in slow moving tides that 
burn their way across mental plains 
with all the promise of chaos
until one wonders whether being
heartbroken is a permanent condition.

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