Teary windows weep the day from sleep to grudging grey.

Flicky, rheumaticky fingers query where to point the blame.

Crusted eyes and sticky lips have nothing more to say:

Mornings after the night before will never be the same.

The spearing cut, the scalpel slice

Decimate to half-life in the blinking of an eye.

The comfort words, as warm as ice

Failed to reassure or provide a reason why

Memory struggles vainly with once upon a season;

No sign of drip or trickle – it just flooded all away.

Mind, befuddled, bitter-streaked, grapples with the treason:

Mornings after the night before just one dull shade of grey.
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