What has it been for
When everything has departed,

Friends, lovers, or large sums
Of tainted money that colored the heart.

Time and circumstance must be to blame
For his heart and memory will not let go

To a gray barren landscape within the mind
That recalls the desolate flats of November.

Struggling to cope with the nothingness
That now so completely engulfs him,

He resigns himself to a deafening loneliness
Searching for something tangible to grasp.

Inner peace is but a vague thought that once consoled
A broken heart, unable to mend or understand.