By Mark Bishop
There's a sadness that doesn't come out to shed its tears anymore
Something so sad it's lost
There's a pain that doesn't write letters from war
Something so hurt from paying the cost
Of being human
Of being dust
Oh to hell with us
or not
The waiting is the worst
bearable at first
but now I wonder if there will be anything at all left for you to resurrect on the last day
You've promised me sorrows in the stay
but every heartache borrows what little I have left to give
left to live
just left
Tomorrow's joys don't seem to mend a broken heart
grant at least that I may grieve
at least that is a start
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