In a fit of sadness
there is no time for tears, there never is;
no time for breathing deep.
A fit of sadness is like pulling a door that says push,
again and again, into eternity;
Trapped like cattle on this side of the kissing gate.
I too know sadness, know well indeed,
our mutual friend, the fog that walks with us.
It is a gangrene, the sadness that grows, like long black hair,
like vines upon gates: A tree that hides
the sun, the rain, from us.
“Will the sadness stop?”, I ask, knowing there are no
wrong questions, only wrong answers.
Someone reading this is sad too, perhaps more than I am
and our collective sighs are the sound, the music,
the noise of the world.
VAISHNAVI PUSAPATI is a physician, writer, and poet with work in over sixty literary journals, including the Brussels Review, Roanoke Review, Prole, InkPantry, Haikuniverse, among others. Her work includes haikus, free verse, and micro fiction.