Of Sorrow’s Patient

She seems to weep alone,
Though utter not a sound,
The sound of patient sorrow sulks
In sullen decorum. They often laugh
As mad men will at boorish humor,
Like cows raging among the quaintly
Painted pastures. But utter not a sound
The patient spirit—she weeps as crystal,
It shines or rings in silence, tenuous the air.
Yes, finely crafted melancholy is like a wine
Refined and duly chosen, for the patient
Of sorrow.


One thought on “Of Sorrow’s Patient

  1. This is an interesting poem – i would hope that the patient’s patience allows her to live a fruitful life – and that the soul may find comfort in companionship with kindred spirits – regardless of how far away they may seem.

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