An adage often stated, 

Time heals all wounds. 

But for some things, dark and cruel, 

The blood waxes thick with cycles of the moon. 

Its icy tendrils dig in deep. 

They crush the will of life, 

And nothing kills them, not even sleep, 

Never-ending strife. 

Thought return forever drear, 

Memories so ill and cold, 

Plaguing the mind, heart unclear, 

Until we turn to mold.