These tears flow
Beyond my control.
I know what I know,
And I feel what I feel.
The questions, they spin.
Answered only by whispers,
As the winds blow,
Where his whispers,
Once fanned the fires.
But perhaps I’m just,
Being melodramatic,
And all this is really,
Just a rouse to make me seem,
More poetic and sensitive,
Than I really am.
What do I know?
I’m only the person,
Who feels, first hand,
This gaping hole,
In the middle
Of me.
Hole
