Sadness creeps on us;
Through the holes in our heart,
Like some owner of servitude,
Or stagnant filled art.
Slaves of emotion,
Whipped soot that ever bleeds,
The kind of Misgivings,
Prisoners would need.
Sadness fills pages,
Within the book of our might,
Like a dying parent who whispers,
Son, everything’s alright.
Sadness finds victims,
Like robbers would do.
The money has gone missing,
I’m so sad, thinking of you.
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