I can not write these . . .
The saddest lines
Because I no longer feel . . .
Anything really

My memories . . .
The mirror of my mind is still clear
Though cracked across the middle

I mean my heart serves me still
Though hopelessly broken

My hands still serviceable
Open and close
Though so cold
Blue cold and

Not even the memory of your warm hand

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

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