35 types of sadness

There is a sadness for every step, for every change.

There is the sadness of being less,
the weak plea and cry of of a worm.
There is the sadness of being too much,
the overflooding mourn of the Sun.
There is the sadness of the mirror,
being imprisoned in an epiphany.

There is the sadness of the flesh,
hammered into ashes by time.
There is the sadness of the blood,
kissing the walls that never say a word.
There is the sadness of the bone,
chiseled into twigs by the weight.

There is the sadness of the lust,
as the burning sheets are turning cold again.
There is the sadness of the child,
leaving the womb in a pool of tears.
There is the sadness of the man,
leaving dull and empty homes behind.
There is the sadness of the father,
as his own seed is choking his soul.

There is the sadness of life,
every stories coming to the same end.
There is the sadness of death,
being afraid of taking the first step.

There is the sadness of the forest,
dissolving in others’ bodies.
There is the sadness of the book,
always needing a reader.
There is the sadness of the king,
giving away yourself to be something more.
There is the sadness of the mother,
giving away yourself to be something less.

There is the sadness of the door,
never being space but boundary.
There is the sadness of the quill,
frozen in the eternal search of a goal.
There is the sadness of the key,
who can’t leave it’s lock behind.
There is the sadness of the paper,
imagining power it never really had.

There is the sadness of the road,
not having knowledge of it’s own length.
There is the sadness of the hand,
overwhelmed by all the work.
There is the sadness of the eyes,
overwhelmed by all the beauty.

There is the sadness of the bird,
reflecting on the illusion of freedom.
There is the sadness of the trees,
enduring pain until the very last moment.

There is the sadness of the sleep,
escaping into a shroud of one’s own mind.
There is the sadness of the morning,
irreversible rays of burning light.
There is the sadness of the night,
buried feelings burning under skin of a statue.
There is the sadness of the present,
grain of sand fleeting all the net of thin fingers.

There is the sadness of the flower,
feeling the grip of winter in the air.
There is the sadness of the hunger,
always on the move to the next meal.
There is the sadness of the water,
even the smallest peck of dust causing a ripple.
There is the sadness of the iron,
only being able to change through storms of flames.

There is the sadness of the healer,
fighting inevitable rot like Sisyphus of the body.
There is the sadness of the poet,
inspiring others though writing in the mud.

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