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The Small Hours
In the small hours of the morning
My loneliness washes over me
And loving thoughts do not equal love
Nor do they equal lover's embrace.
Despair floods through and flows from my eyes.
Those I call do not hasten to me.
The stabbing pain of a thousand knives
Punctures and punctuates my darkness.
In the small hours of the morning
My song becomes one of deepest grief -
I have only limited hours
To try to conceal its ravages.
Well, I like the poem. Sad as the content implies.
However, it is out of character. It is not what I have come to view from an optimistic teacher. A lovely teacher who has leant so much to every heart she touches.
Dylan
"One of the best results of life, is the torment of love"
Dylan Eliot