This house does not resound its happy song.
No echo loud of life and lively steps.
The pitter missing and the patter gone.
Its silence wrestles sorrow ever kept.
A restless shadow troubles, haunts my sleep;
And memories do not allow me rest.
They follow, loyal, closely, within reach.
My guilt remains so warm and unsuppressed.
And blood!—the blood!—the blood that trails the hearse:
The funeral continues after death.
The light of love and life perverse, reversed;
And versed with words that sound my failing breath.
My children, blackness keeps you evermore!
The darkness beckoning me to the shore.
M.M. — December MMXII
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