For whom are we allowed to mourn,
To wet our faces and be forlorn?
Is it law alone to have that bond,
Or be also by extension fond?
Are friends and lovers to be set out,
Apart from the saddened devout?
We grasp some memory's last straw,
About one caught in death's true final awe.
Set adrift on some grey and forlorn sea,
Please recognize among the crying be,
Some people whom you cannot see.
Tag Archives: Poetry
Hmmm…
What do you let go of?
What do you hold on to?
What can you let go?
Who can you let go?
At what point do you say,
“Fuck this, I’m either all in,
Or all out. There’s no in between.”
But secretly think that maybe it would be safer, in between?
At what point is ambiguity not enough?
At what point do you hope?
Where is that hope from?
When do you put it on the line?
When do you call it quits?
Where is love in your questions?
Where is sweetness?
Purple Penguin 