Grief’s Furnace

Strife comes as we strive,
And grief will always be:

To hold our eyes to the light,
To pierce the vaults of heaven,
As we watch everything we know
Fall, shattered by harsh lessons.

Grief is a piercing white-hot iron
And, if it warms the body,
The pain comes at a price.

But understanding comes too slowly
And heavy sleep will take us away just as once we learn.
Though we might regret, we lament together and never forget:
Battered, engulfed, but only on the descent!

There is a reason,
Though reason it is not,
For the law of averages.

I smash the table we once ate off,
Drank at, and lived from,
With my furious fist
As my heart is torn apart.

My dampened palm misses the youthful hand it once shook,
And can do nothing, but follow its trajectory from air to wood,
Knowing the sound will never be heard by the one it calls.

And all the drawing room ethics are rightfully scorned;
And the stars that once would comfort me are cruel,
And have faces, smiling ugly, taunting;
And in my eyes you’ll find no repose.

Strife comes as we strive,
And grief will always be,

As the lonely road – its Guide now lost on his own adventure, is relentless in its approach.

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