All the Dark Nights

and the night becomes
the hardest time
when the house is silent
and on its own and
no-one here to say
a single word to me -
and I wander, turning
lights off and pulling
doors, leaving
all the artefacts I hoard
in the dark, and then
I brave the bedroom
and the bed, and
dread the toss and turn, the
wakeful whisper where
I am not alone and
my own head gives me
no peace, and I
think of my dear
mother - four years deceased,
and regret
my breath, the
struggle that is
a trial, a daily
toil and no joy in it
and only survival - and
wonder what is
the use of it all - the
dark and silent
hall and my grandparents'
wedding day presiding
over all
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