Progression, During Early Mourning Poem by Andrew Rose

They creep up on me when vulnerable at night,
When light is dark through loss of sight,
My self becomes tired and cannot resist,
Anxious thoughts occur and persist.

Now early mourning, sorrows foreseen,
But no ignorant twittering of the winged,
Don’t stay tacit and timid with hoarded regrets,
Silently humbled, not allowed to forget.


Vestige of thoughts of everything descend within one,
Besotted mind concentrates and listens,
No twilight gleams beneath the dewdrops wet,
Muffled sounds rhyming into none.
Euphemisms used to disregard this unhappy event,
Diurnal nocturnalness, both collide,
The last enemy has conquered all now,
Waywardly onward, setting sound.


Eternal appearance of my failing occurs inwardly,
Volubly callous voice of the real and surreal compete,
Acting foolishly paranoid, it’s then I realise,
Life seems so meaningless once we demise.

What is gone is lost, never to be retrieved,
Over time the hurt goes, but the heart will still bleed,
Guilt fades slowly, a hopeful belief anyway,
As time never makes better that solitary day.