Grief is flawless,
like crossing eyes with someone,
across a room full of noise,
suddenly there’s the tinnitus of silence,
you hear yourself,
to your self,
the type of relationship,
that amuses poets for the rest of their lives.
Yes grief is a muse,
a patient one at that,
like a chord that plays on repeat,
so you comprehend the scale of its sorrow,
of its disharmony,
and how, so many flat notes,
bring such symphony.
Grief is the poets skin,
that knows scar tissue like it is the norm,
that doesn’t cower from emotion,
frailty, vulnerability and scorn,
lives with valour amongst prying eyes,
and flourishes between the caress of mourn.
It’s the perfection of grey,
of clouds, of light, of darkness,
the perfect storm.