No ambition

Yesterday, I wept
for lovers who are no more,
singing Requiems.

They say tears heal,
but I keep picking at scabs,
replaying my grief.

I seem to be stuck in a holding pattern, this week, or to use a better analogy, my ambition’s battery has died and I’m creatively stalled. I’m not even sure I want to re-charge. I’ve been here, before, and if the past is any clue, I’ll get over it. In the meantime, I just have to endure.

Of course, this does not mean I will endure with any patience. I lost that instruction booklet eons ago.

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About elrondsilvermaul

I never know what to say about myself. I let what I write try to speak as to who I am. I can only add, here, that I am 72, live in a nursing home, am twenty years a cancer survivor, and identify as a gay male. I intend to use this blog as storage for poems? written over the long years (and still being written). This does not preclude other uses.
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