It’s never trivial to offer comfort to the dead,
to the one who shouldn’t stay but cannot leave.
The rhythm of the singsong rhymes that lay them in their bed
is the same one on your tongue that lets you grieve.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in On Depression, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to canto

  1. Haunting. Golden. Marvelous.

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