It’s no coincidence,
I was offered all this time,
an escape from staring at reality,
a comfort,
for seeing who I thought I was disappear,
and who I really am,
stand over me.
Time is there to prepare you,
and I used it to fancy my excuses,
dress them up a little more,
until I had no more of it left.
Now time looks like a grief stricken widow,
black,
sunken eyes,
a veil that suffocates,
relentlessly numbing.
She beats me,
with nothing more than pulse and breath,
I know something isn’t right,
and I am not looking for it.
Am I being selfish,
am I offering others the time they deserve,
or will I,
like my father,
not leave grief in my will.
I’ve swollen soles,
standing in the same spot,
I’ve not been shown how to traverse,
my grief tastes of sugar and neglect,
of tongue heavy stroke,
stricken and struck,
muddied and stuck,
quickened and parched,
into the dunes that smother.
This brother,
this lover,
this son of a widowed mother,
has no answers,
has no poem long enough,
or experience savage enough,
to ease anyone’s grief,
to give anyone relief.
W.E.
lonerloaner 