Monday, January 5, 2015


The Grief

is a straightjacket:
no time limits,
the futile struggle to be set free

awakens you with phantom voices,
burning images,
hovers, even when
others think it should be gone,

removes the things you loved,
hides them from your eyes,
crawls through the imprisoned body
with waves of lethargic pain.

No conscious control,
just a disaster of tears pushing out
of your ruined face, a craving for comfort
when the comforting time is past.

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