a poem for the mournful

Whether one existed or not
would make no difference to me;
It’s alive or it’s not
has no bearing upon my soul.
I feel the weight of it not,
I feel its presence no more.
I yearn not for its taking,
I hear not of its voice.
I ration now not with its reason.
A tide
sweeps life
into the current
of the ever-after.

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