So busy
going through the mindless loops
that tie each day together
to make a month,
a year,
a lifetime.

Then suddenly —
DEATH.
The full stop
which sucks out breath.

And the world
abruptly
stands still.
But,
not     the world.
For everyone else
carries on,
oblivious
to the darkness,
unaware
of the massive hole in the universe.

I cannot sit; I sink,
pulled down into lethargy.
Moonlight streams
through forgotten curtains
and bathes me
in her violet scent
and
I begin
to breathe
again.

 

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Day Seventeen: Write a nocturne. In music, a nocturne is a composition meant to be played at night, usually for piano, and with a tender and melancholy sort of sound. Aim to translate this sensibility into poetic form!

 

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