Angels On Mute

Welcome loneliness my old friend,

to mark the hours emptiness sends

 

In the middle of the cold and dark,

the vanishing call of a last meadowlark

 

leaving me stranded,

deep in the well

 

Counting the minutes where time has conspired,

lusting for something whose clock has expired

 

This silence a chorus of Angels on mute,

promising nothing, all vows to refute

 

left and abandoned

—deserted in hell

 

 (Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2020)

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