There is no story in this suffering.
No poetry to dignify my grief.
Just the exhausted emotion flood
of a hormone-clogged body
where the drowning mind sinks lower
fighting the fiercely dragging riptide
wrestling ghosts it can barely see.
Lost in these seasonal mists
the body, unable to weep its blood,
bleeds a faint and hollow substitute
colourless, but just as bitter.
Normal more cheerful service will be resumed shortly, hormones permitting….