Amas, amat, amar
Ten years on,
Sisterless,
Bereft.
Relentless time marches on
Nothing in my tool box
to fix this grinding, leaking
grief.
It’s not the heart that’s broken,
it’s pain which flows
through the life force.
An ache,
beyond the reach of analgesics.
Like losing a breast,
gone
and nothingness in its place.
Pure emptiness
And whilst the edges fray,
the core is still without cure
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