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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