a kind of sorrow

[fledgist]

 

a kind of sorrow that none would confess
around us all the noises fade to naught
but to no master could we acquiesce

no power could ever hope to curse or bless
those forces that have all of life now caught
a kind of sorrow that none would confess

each might choose singly to raise or depress
the normal heart with strings that are held taut
but to no master could we acquiesce

with haste and desperation we compress
time into struggles that the dead have fought
a kind of sorrow that none would confess

all motivations lead us to excess
with everyone becoming most distraught
but to no master could we acquiesce

the message goes always to wrong address
yet none of us is ever overwrought
a kind of sorrow that none would confess
but to no master could we acquiesce