Secret Sorrows

A world of love,
A world of hate,
Worsts and bests, a lingering trait,
Brought from the end in a freight.
A man of history,
A woman of makings,
A mark, a rage, a red ledger,
Only trying to find a place to rest.

The words are never personal,
They’re never meant to hurt,
An intent to bring meaning,
Intervening, screening, gleaming, quarantining,
Find blood splattered over the real unmeaning.

A pattern broken. A scheme undone,
One final step to make sure everything
falls into place, to run,
Away from the problems,
And redesign the connection,
And fix that which I’ve always dreamed.
Because as the saying goes,
I am called cold, when I am only sad.
I am called mad, when I am only lost.
In the wide, wide ocean road.

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