On Loss

Loss still lurks
In dark corners.
Planning all the while
To strike.
She stays a guest
Refused and denied
A thousand of thousands of times.

Loss sure isn’t
Close to home.
Loss sleeps in our beds
Even when
We spread our wings
To fill the space
Of some queen-size thing.

Loss isn’t hurting
For miles or inches.
She has no need
For beggar’s charm.
How could she?

Loss is nothing more
Than the mere
Of time.
Making long and lonely
Fools of us all.


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Filed under change, loss, poem, poetry, time

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