Sadness is dangerous because it has no real duration
Or expression for me
It has a silence all its own
In which, nevertheless, words paint themselves
In my mind
Both expressing and eschewing
I unwittingly compose poems, inside my head,
“salty tears drip to the tongue… I am wrung…”
meanwhile I stifle sobs under the
I awake the next day.
The sun shines down.
I am ready, again.