We pride ourselves on being
creatures of change and
progressing into the unknown, yet when the
plague of grief strikes the very marrow of the
lives we dwell in, we allow it to
consume our very being and
hollow out all that is left within us. Once is enough
to hold the badge of grief,
and I would be grateful that not another moment
pangs the depths of my soul, as did this.
Yet again, I hold the sense of its approach. Grief comes as
an unknown darkness does. It loiters condescendingly
around a dimly lit
street corner, almost as if it gives us a chance
to run away from it,
but it does not. Turning our backs to it,
the darkness comes swiftly and fills
the many gaps in an instance that we cannot seem to fill in a lifetime,
but we do not think it to be evil at the first meeting. No.
Time is what causes death and the rising of the beast,
time is what allows us to think of many the things we can accomplish in the future, so that we can place them aside in our current state. As the feet of minutes
click against the solid street like
flutters of harmless rain, the beat of hours come
in a steady stream of swiftness, growing deeper in sound and heavier in rainfall atop the slick pavement.
Immense sound of rain
roars and rattles within
the ears of a person,
like a drum that has had its first and last beating;
it roars until it whimpers,
it marches until it falls.
Time is what hollows out our hearts, not the thing we call
grief, not the beast itself.
Time which allows us to believe
that we mustn’t face our dislike for something, but rather
bury it. Bury it beneath the earth like any other dead thing.
Bury it, although it is still alive
and waiting
to be let out.
We must let it out, or else
what we call time, what we call
pain and grief;
it will release to us venom from within.
I am growing weary that this could mold itself into a sort of cycle, a cycle of temporary feelings that seem everlasting
This time,
this rain
that seems to fall,
though truly it makes us do the like.