The day
you left, the gods
blacked out the sun. Enraged . . .
unbowed . . . I vowed I was too proud
to weep.
No tears!
I swore and sealed
my hurt inside. The pain
I dared not touch . . . the wound was much
too deep.
And so . . .
although the urge
consumes . . . I've managed thus . . .
so far . . . somehow . . . my somber vow
to keep.
But oh
the price I've paid!
When comes release? . . . Perhaps
if I could cry . . . perhaps then I
might sleep.
John T. Baker