How much O how much night
for one dash of blue
over your grief.
Surely it’s a lie,
a negative of what Is,
nothing is true, dear,
in this elusive light.
Hear it, you who live
within your own heart,
the suspended music
of the inverted world.
In every scar, in every
grin, in every story
polished with unseen
blood, nothing is lost
dear, not a tear,
you were never
No one’s score.
There is a night
locking up shams
in every dying star,
there is a place
beyond the blue,
clearer than the black
you knew. How much
O how much blue
before that ordeal
is through, how much
O how much night
with the volatility
of dew.

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