Late Night Melancholy

Night after night
As though drunk, you stumble clumsily into her
the writings
You know not to withhold;  to restrain

 

It’s impossible
Yet like a dying ember you struggle
With wild foresight
And misled judgement

 

It’s not possible
Your mind swindled by your heart
Your vision is blurry
Untrustworthy

 

Maybe it’s possible,
Maybe if you grasp on relentlessly
Like death hanging onto
every soul
A deer bleeding from its neck (infatuated with the lion)

 

Just maybe
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