Woe Of Circumstance Poem by Christopher Thor Britt

My bitter heart, a ghost that ever lingers at the edge of sight
First seeking, then fleeing as if by chancing that which it desires most
Might forever add permanence to its lonely sentence

Still the specter remains, shrieking in sleepless sleep
Wailing in her misery for that which was lost and what can never be
She haunts my dreams by day and night with woe of circumstance

Though these arms enfold me and lips do claim my own
Fickle memory taunts me and scorns me for the fool I am
The taste of honey adorns my lips from mead I long to sip, but cannot

Endless, lay eternal night across the expanse to my heart
The walls once worn thin with pleasant fiction grow tall and wide as
The door little used, now rusts upon the hinges of negligence

My hands are empty of all but time, and that, the heaviest burden
I carry it alone, and alone I will remain though the world surrounds me
This bitter cup, once sweet, falls empty to the ground…spent