The skipped beat of an irregular heart.
No rest for the wicked, no wicked unrest.
False comfort long spent to flower’s sweet scent;
Comfort long lost in relentless lament.
Repenting, yet not regretful in solace;
Making pace, a trace, but bleak consolation.
Overwrought in apprehension’s solemn place,
A brave face, though unwittingly condemned.
Overwhelmed by unremitting confusion,
A conclusion seemingly out of sight.
Like the bluebottle’s plight to window’s pane;
The other side, greener, teasingly bright.
But as yielding of clouds relieves endless rain;
In sunlight, a reprieve from heady disdain.
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