Shrouded
What is the measure of sorrow’s depth? A mile, a fathom? Soullessness?
Is it a silent suffering or screaming agony? Or less
Than nothing? Is true sorrow deep as midnight? Is it fiery? Cold?
Is’t a return to youthful helplessness, or falling instant-old?
Who knows the grief in its extreme that tells how deep sorrow can grow?
Only the ghosts of doubt can guess at this: I hope I never know.
Art-Colored Glasses 
i hope none of us feels that Kathryn
Exactly.
To no one should this sorrow befall…
Precisely so. I’m very fortunate to have visited such a place very, very little in my life. Would that it could be so for more people.