And sometimes grief does not know it is called grief.
In the night, it is
A gray pigeon cooing,
The horn of a train,
A blank document, a full envelope,
Melting butter on this morning’s bread.
When you face forgetful grief
You should teach it not to
Rain on you,
And soak you in sorrow
It needs you.
Grief; With eight arms,
And bleeding hearts,
I am unafraid.
You will shape and recognize
Yourself,
Your addictive bargaining,
Your wishes and daydreams
And you will mold,
Ink on my skin,
Words on my screen,
You will learn to live with me
Until, I, too
Will make the Gray pigeons coo.
Read previous entries for Grateful: Something to be thankful for only here at The Ugly Writers:
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sometimes grief leaves permanent markings in one’s life.
[Mark Matthew F. Hernandez], [CIV191], Moment, [MQ2], Depth of field
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