My love lies buried in the cold, cold ground

   I am suspicious
     of anyone
     who is sad
     all at once –
     who grieves
     for a day
     or a week –
     those people
     who weep
     so profusely
     at funerals
     as if they had
     realized it all –
     where feeling
     runs deep
     as rivers
     one realizes
     and realizes
     and realizes
     aching out
     like the ring
     of a pebble tossed

     and it doesn’t subside slowly,
     evenly – neatly, like some
     machine-manufactured thing 
     with no trace of humanity on it

     it lurches and rales
     and maybe never dies
     but more becomes
     the painted backdrop
     for younger emotions
     to play before. 

.

.

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