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A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear–

~~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Dejection: An Ode”

the discordant score
of my life
would be composed
in the key of
A-minor, diminished,
and played
on a piano missing
a few keys
and the beat would
be kept
by a rusty old tuba,
a dirge,
a march to the gates
of hell
with a mournful sax
to wail
a winding melody
by demons and ghosts
of lovers
and all the lost souls
of those
i’ve unwillingly buried
and never
had the balls to let go

and then

and then

a lone clarinet will
end it all
on a long fading note
of hope