Work Text:
They say, "I'm sorry for your loss";
Of what, of liberty?
Things like these come in limping threes;
I'm sorry for the loss of my sanity;
And I mourn you have nothing to say to me now.
Perhaps wait until I am not so torn,
Torn asunder within my home,
Waiting again for love forlorn,
Languishing under a nebulous dome,
To say what you will say;
And may be your words will rend sunlight,
Turn this to a better day,
And may be my gaze can stop the clouds
From pouring forth their rain
Onto fools with foolish closed-eye daydreams,
Believing everything will be fixed by what you say to me.
I can stand to hear a multitude of things,
But don't you dare pity me.