After Death's Silence Joseph Lisowski

Turning to the Natural World

A restless thrushie chirps in dusk
outside my window. The same one,
I suspect, that comes before dawn.
Its happy, intrusive sound mocks
my loss. In spite of myself I listen.

The late rhythm is not light breaking.
Its programmed song is delusion.
Yet, for a moment I convince myself
and get drunk on its lies.

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