Widowed Without A Manual

Some of us grieve longer then others. I will not be rushed out of my love, that still inhabits my heart.

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In this dead cold night
winds rush past my skin
leaving it white and cold
but as cold as my skin seems
is not as cold as my heart
season of joy they say
season of birth decorated with white beards and red suits
bells ringing to attract money
money is the key focus of this season
there is no joy of truths
only traffic and debt and over indulgence
my heart is cold
for it is void of love
memories are fading
soon they will not keep me warm and safe
from the merchants of ‘happy’
december 24 2016

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Author: ilovecloudstoo

I live in Canada though​ I was not born here. Newfoundland is where my heart breathes. Primarily I am a visual artist, welded and or cast bronze sculptures. Sylvia Plath may have been the seed planted in me that is creating poetry. Since then I have read so many great modern poets work. Art is my sustaining business poetry sustains my soul.

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