Blade Of Sorrow
by Sharon Rothenfluch Cooper


Our brain
is a marvelous tool
when it works.

Whispers comfort
in distant memories
and ride each moment
with an echo of sadness,
allows me to throw back
my head and laugh
or swell with rage.

Now rusted it lays in inertia.
Dormant thoughts sometimes
allow a few holes to gape
through splintered dialogue
_____...but...
with no calm insertion of words.

I wander into the void
and there is silence
in my space,
my voice stilled.






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