What virtue

 

What virtue is there in a widow’s hours

Her love’s gone and she’s restless in her grief.

Some  from feared insanity  do cower.

Some blame God as all would blame a thief.

She sits forlorn and gazes at the trees

From summer ripe to winter bare of leaf.

But no-one else  knows  what  it is she sees:

Memories of the funeral and her wreath

Unthinkable , unthought her sorrow deep

Uncontainable  the cataract released.

Destroying all the images of sleep.

Suffering which  mere death could not  make cease.

Pure elimination of both  life and   death

Entire destruction ;total nothingness

 

I welcome comments and criticism

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