The Poetry of Grief…..

Sometimes, I think my Grief has nine lives.
Each time I bury it, it is resurrected.
Its strength compounds with every life,
as it draws from mine.

Hope is a flighty mistress.
She could survive on mere assumption.
She thrives in speculation.
But reality bores her.
And boredom kills, so she dies.
Hope never floats.
Hope sinks without a trace.

“Pshaw!” says petulant Reason,
tapping her foot impatiently.
“Hope was but your creation”
I see her pallid and waifish.
It’s en-vogue, I’m told.
She bursts with health, come Joy.
But Grief is a different story.

My Grief purrs contentedly.
Its licks its paws and
smiles its Cheshire smile.
Stripped of Hope,
with an ailing Reason,
I am but sitting duck.

But Grief has its merits.
No one wishes ill of one grieving.
The world reserves its ill-will
for the joyous.

Sometimes, I think my Grief will
make a poet of me.
Aye, I think it has.