Mourning glory.

--

There’s a knock on my temple

A soft knuckle sounds gentle

Door closed, a shadow looms

Darkness spreads across the rooms

I call out with trepidation

A knock follows without hesitation

My brow perspiring, sat in hiding

It’s him again, the lights dim again

It’s the old me, back again like he tol’ me

On a soap box, he here to Eastend Me

“Joy is an illusion, a survival tool

Hope just a collusion, a happy man a happy fool

Listen to this voice as warning

Sleep late and miss the morning

Your fate ends with the last mourning’

--

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