Sad, Sad Poem, by me, Vicki, Revised, Again.

 

Fighting is futile,

as loss displaces life.

The Dying one

may be consoled

A warm hand replaces love.

Like the hand of God

The grasp of life trumps love.

 

But as for a living one

retreating, she entreats

a dark-corner pardon,

as Un-consoled, she

is inconsolable.

Her palm can touch the realm of death.

when Her Only One’s hand

has been withdrawn–

The loss of Love trumps Life.

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