Sorrow

I felt the scoop marks that quarried my flesh

That made me a cavern.

What lies with in?

Maybe a hermit vestige

That laments to no man.

Eyes that did not weep.

Dared not shed. To little left to fall.

Ah, the monotony of sorrow, the rusted

Emotion.

A drab outdated light shade

Lit by intermittent bursts

From a flickering low watt bulb.

Dripping dank damp dew that falls

Into an old plastic bucket

lost without its spade.

It passes, but is an overlong winter.

Snow in may.

 It scars and marks like a child

Ripped from its womb.

Can it be drowned?

Christened?

An answer, for many men.

A warming buzz that chops up the world

Into such easy pieces.

Listen to the ghostly note of a dusty organ

That sounds through the empty hall

On the decrepit Pier.

It shadows the dropped aimless beat

Of the sorrowful heart.