Poetry is a filler that seeks desperately to fill an abyss
The large bed with its quilted comfort offers no bliss
The warmth of that angel that lieth next to me is gone
The body still lingers but the soul is alone
I seek solace in typing out a few words of sadness
A despair washes over me as I am fooled by randomness
Most days go hither in a meaningless droll
Sometimes I wish it is me that Harry killed like that troll
For in his emptiness he wandered afar from his kind
His mindless rantings could not a soul find
I feel like that small grey matter that seeks release
Sometimes I feel I could just pass away as I sleep
