The Wound and the Eye

I’ll say a word: “sadness”
and give you a thorn in bloom,

the world and you seem tinted blue
and filled with bitter perfume.

Sadness is a world you see,
“the wound and the eye are the same”

reaching down to the chalky ground
where the bones and the dust remain.

But sadness is only a word you see
the world overspills the eye,

a dull warm ache, a need to relate,
confusion persists as to why.

So I’ll say a word: “sadness”
but sadness is only a word

beneath cement, a deep lament
above it, the song of a bird.

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