Sad eyes always on the verge of greatness, it’s hard to find poetry in happiness, tortured artists find pleasure in pain. How many years has it been? Too many to speak aloud. The best art comes from absolute misery. He died when the season was in bloom, and after another anniversary passes us by, we reflect on a time when we were young and in control for a split second, or so it seemed.
Time seems to have a healing power that is cruel yet necessary. The poet in me does not want to “get over” tragedies from the past, but it is unhealthy to mourn for a lifetime.
I must find something else in order to keep going.