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


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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