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2 stones

A black mood hangs as dense fog wrapped about the world.

It obscures light and filters the day as thought dusk

It turns each silver threaded moment into inky gray

It veils hope and joy in undertaker’s shroud so final.

A black mood hangs as heavy as headstone of one beloved.

It marks the spot where peace rests with stark reality

It presses the parched soul downwards beneath itself

It resists the breath of dawn as it struggles to be free.

A black mood hangs as terrifying as most shocking nightmare.

It sucks in ones mind pulling each fear glaringly outward

It forces the eyes upon the stark coldness chilling deeply

It grips tightly pleasant things twisting them painfully.

A black mood hangs as real as the breeze moving the trees.

It renders still the soft caress that would be welcome

It drives away that which would seek such fresh wind

It oppresses all it encounters emptying the peace within.

A black mood hangs as stubborn as forever and everlasting.

It fills every pore as virus does in claiming victims

It destroys as tornadoes path creating only sadness

It offers nothing but the truth of painful past remembered.

And there it stays, waiting… always.

Karen Quinn 2002 rev. 2013

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