I read Tennyson's out-pouring for his friend
Not realising that depression then
Was nothing to this knife-wound of The End.
Shopping in Oxford, doing the weekend quiz;
A new dress-shirt, a new bow-tie, like his,
Cannot still the ache within my heart
Which, with all I have, keeps me apart
As if his death had cast my mind adrift
Into a mirror world where everything
Was normal, yet a momentary shift
Can isolate me in a fog of grief.
I know that this will pass but until then
Consciousness can not help crying When?
Brian Hick June 2009
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