Thinking of loss, sudden or lingering,
and dwelling long in that land of twilight
brings a flare of anger, an icy bite
that wreathes loneliness on one as a shroud,
acting as a thick wall against the crowd
as one drifts, seemingly stricken by blight,
each step faltering in the cold, dark night,
despair and grief in the wind whistling.
Take hope, love; raise your face into the sun.
Sadness may come; it will not be your fall,
as your friends will remain with you and bring
to you comfort, no matter what's been done.
As the moon might wax and wane, so does all
that lives to see autumn turn on to spring.

-=+IOI+=-

It can be difficult to comfort those that have lost someone. This one
was written as a modified Petrarchan sonnet; the rhyme scheme on the
octet differs in an attempt to invoke the feeling of falling into the
hole of despair that seems to happen in difficult times.


Penned by my hand on the 20th of Bellum, in the year 533 AD.