Friday, April 21, 2006


When she died,
i cried for justice.
When i knew that justice could not be had,
i cried for the world's loss.
When i realized the scarcity of those who knew her,
i cried for my own loss.
When i could not cry any more,
i cried for the loss of nostalgia.
When i found its futility,
i cried at my cynicism.
When i made peace with its realism,
i cried for the wasted days.
When i thought of any alternative,
i cried.


Blogger Third said...

it's much prettier when you think of a poem as a mix between french and english.

4:46 PM  
Blogger 23r0 said...

that fits me so will it scarry that and it gos along with a story thats stuck in my head too

12:52 AM  

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