People cry in public,
Intimidated by the fear of being seen as unmoved,
I prefer the shadows.
Like all things anchored to me,
You (oh grief) wait in darkness unseen,
And Let them think,
That I’m a heartless son,
‘Perhaps he’s stricken with no soul,
Perhaps he’s so far departed,
But I don’t mind that eyes stare,
That this pain visits me alone,
And leaves not a morsel of me to spare.
Here I am four am darkness,
With pen in hand,
And blotched pages with the ink of my grief,
Perhaps like him,
What do public displays of tears do but comfort the conformists,
I weep in solitude and heal in solitude,
And of my soul am the alchemist.