Mourning is everything.

I’m not mourning dead things,
Rather, I’m mourning longing,
Or is it longing I’m mourning?
Same thing, same sting.
-W.E.

I mourn for everything,
For my unborn offspring,
Words, I’ll never get to sing,
Forgotten poetic, prattling,
My tomato vines blossoming,
And among other things,
The rest of my garden in spring.
I Mourn, mourning,
That weird kinda something,
Alluring,
Inspiring,
The missing,
Yeah, it’s that throat lumping,
Heart jumping,
Blood clotting,
Mind stroking,
Soft caressing,
Don’t you mourn them too?
The Nothings,
Haven’t happened yet, musings?
I Mourn losing loving,
Crescendo voice in the morning,
No, not the opera singer,
The baby crying,
The mist falling,
On leaves whilst,
Harps are strumming,
Silently, but strumming.
You know they’re making music,
Like the rhythm of life forms crawling.
What a silly thing,
To think that mourning,
Is only for dead things,
For gone things,
For liver stings,
For broken wings,
No, any moment without all these things,
Is a moment for mourning.
If you don’t feel this mourning,
You’re not an earthling,
You’re a deathling,
And for you,
I have no mourning,
No wailing.

W.E.