a princely sum of sorrow

And sorrow was all she had;
enough stored for the winter and
even leaner times, enough to
glut and prosper on,
and it was valued in the princeliest way,
more precious than gold,
more vital than air:
a sorrow to be supped and sipped,
a sorrow that stirred her,
a sorrow that stopped her, that
tapped into deep places and
brought bones burbling up from the darkness,
and it was all she had,
and it would never be enough.

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