Mourning glory.
May 6, 2024
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’