dear grief – 14

 

It’s meant to be a release,
but it singes either way.

The ney,
wails reluctantly,
sorrow ensues,
by the breath of the entertainer.

He assumes he fashioned you this grief,
and gives no credit to the flute maker,
who crafted the scale and haunt,
out of nothing more than bamboo and a file,
and assumption of engulfing the mourner with embrace.

Little do both care,
the ney can only cry so much,
before it’s reed is discarded,
and it’s body turned to mulch.

W.E.

dear grief – 13


What riches do I have,
that I can give,
that can expiate me,
or expiate him,
that aren’t from God to begin with.

What a fool I am,
assuming I can bribe my way,
out of grief,
out of guilt.

Or am I being held to ransom,
by my self,
of myself,
only to come to comprehension,
too late,
with too little left to give.

W.E.

-love letters

I am saddened at the thought that a whole generation of young women will never have the opportunity of receiving a love letter.

Articulated, be it as poetic as Byron or as simple as a child’s innocence, with love and soul, carefully crafted, paper selection, ink and script, fragranced to suit your temperament, cursive leaning towards you as they cannot contain themselves from their advance. They are brimming to the top with ecstatic elation and a sorrowful hope that their efforts are realised and received.

No, instead, his love is a finger swipe away.

-W.E.

Cure for the sane

I’ve seen you at the edge of normality,
and how bored you look,
staring with trepidness,
this hyper fear,
to get near,
to the crazy insolubles,
to the protected valuables.

Did you ever think,
this fog of confusion,
this veil of seclusion,
is our choice default?

We purposely paint ourselves odd,
to be left alone by your hyper-sanity.

And you know too well
the cure for sanity,
is our insanity.

W.E.

dear grief – 9

dear grief – 9

You don’t sound like a cello,
stringing it’s sorrow,
more like a ney,
I have no idea how to blow,
soothing to play,
for those who know,
but for me,
simply a cylindrical hollow.

Am I shallow?
Perhaps indifferent,
Melancholic mellow,
Or a blackened and charred,
Fume from bellow,
blacksmith of loss,
Hardened and rigid,
Smog filled swallow.

W.E.

Music by Kudsi Erguner

dear grief – 8

There’s nothing quite as sobering as grief,
to uncover the guilt and sin,
the grime within,
there’s no teeth gritting,
no blood spitting,
that can remove the angst from your jaw,
or the taste from your mouth.

I’ve found in all this haunting,
a special fondness,
a familiarity,
we all smother with inattention.

To look at death,
and not worry about the ghosts,
takes a spiritual anchoring,
a maturing,
a purge,
of all you fear,
an embrace,
so the memory of the deceased,
remains near.

W.E.

default pity

default-pity
It’s the pity that drains me.

Somehow it overtakes the reality,
that you’re still breathing,
still functioning,
yet they dumb down their speech,
their interaction with you,
offering you a dispensation,
kindness by default,
talking to you,
like you’re not sophisticated enough,
not acute enough,
not alive enough,
not human enough.

The empathy they afford,
is loaded with white fragility,
with hyper sensitivity,
wrought with disclaimers,
anchored with fine print,
that they wallow in a bath of victim-hood,
because entitlement keeps their noses,
pointed up if only figuratively,
and they assume,
you’re in need,
of their constructed lulling,
their entitled guilt,
and sinister faces.

Thank you for your fake smile,
your agenda creased corner of your eyes,
your aged skin,
over half a century old,
over half a century dead,
and still not a human,
still barely a person.

Imagine,
being kind,
not out of pity,
but because it is your very essence.

W.E.

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