Smothering Silence

 There are no last days of sadness sadness is like the jot of candy stuck in your jaw, it sticks.  It is the cold feet dangling out of quilt, wet socks, a dry tongue running out of words, a song of discomfort.  Sadness is everything in everything, in the roads you travel, in the houses you exist.  Undisturbed with what your lenses witness, It lingers even in the brief, silent moments of oblivion that are all yours.  It's an anxious thought, even an afterthought, an incomplete sentence, a lie to a lover.  sadness is not a state of mind,  it's a state of being.  A truth hanging on the tip of your tongue, but never coming out, toppling almost whatever the heart holds the discomfort in the body, the filth of the world.  the only truth which fills the void,  the void of our being,  sadness is you, sadness is me.  and there are no last days of sadness. 

 What kind of story is this? A sad demise of our promises.  A tongue tied, a chest sinking An old rose sighing, a new bell ringing. A slow sadness surfacing the clicks of time, A thread burnt black, a vicious crime. Have all of them been robbed of the sorts of bliss? What kind of story is this?