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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
contrived
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

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