As I write this, there are a lot of different bad things happening.  I will explain all in a few days, but, for now, I want to put this poem up for everyone to read to know exactly how I am feeling now in my soul:

Song IX

by W.H. Auden (1936)

(from: Twelve Songs)

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead.

Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was our North, our South, our East and West,

Their working week and Their Sunday rest,

our noon, our midnight, our talk, our song;

I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.