How I Die Each Night When We Are Apart

In time the day subsides without relief;
it merely moves from light to gray to dark.
These grimy windows of my disbelief
pull shades of doubt to hide my human spark.
The sleep of death, the death of sleep, the dream
that waits regardless of ontology
plays out in what it is, not what it seems.
My question: not to be or not to be?
These eyes have been deprived of what they seek,
directed by my mind, my heart, my soul:
deprived by deprivations so unique
that nothingness would be a lofty goal.
In short, the day has passed devoid of grace;
once more I’ve missed the beauty of your face.

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