I do know what it is to want to sleep
And not wake up, not worry anymore:
To crumble on my bed into a heap
To cast my clothes and worries on the floor

As fever burns my skin, my eyes, my mind
And circumstance betrays my sad estate
To find some solace in what rest I find
Escaping for some moments from my fate

For energy, like love, is truth withheld
The spot beside me, empty, where you were
Where once our minds and bodies were to meld
Is vacant space where naught will e’er occur

This sonnet of dejection now I write
And seek the loving arms of endless

Published by

Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

2 thoughts on “Despondence”

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