all this time, my tongue,
was his heart writing grief,
prose and poetry unsung,
his spirit showing me relief

he leaves me with a weight of unknowing,
that is filled with my pastime,
relics of his past life,
the reminder of the white dress,
that death awaits me in.

elixir of friction,
concoctions of hurt he could not pronounce,
I don’t grieve,
because the shrills would deafen her,
would slay me,
rupture the lips they are meant to pass from,
and hold the world in contempt,
of the court of love.

instead, he finds me,
in pangs of writers blocks,
in moments filled with an orchestra rattle,
there he is,
the brown moth of white noise.

it doesn’t bother me,
that you see only fleshen mass,
this cavity is large for a reason,
but did you ever ask yourself,
i wonder how much it can hold,
what it can hold, or who it’s held?


Mourning is everything.


I’m not mourning dead things,
Rather, I’m mourning longing,
Or is it longing I’m mourning?
Same thing, same sting.

I mourn for everything,
For my unborn offspring,
Words, I’ll never get to sing,
Forgotten poetic, prattling,
My tomato vines blossoming,
And among other things,
The rest of my garden in spring.
I Mourn, mourning,
That weird kinda something,
The missing,
Yeah, it’s that throat lumping,
Heart jumping,
Blood clotting,
Mind stroking,
Soft caressing,
Don’t you mourn them too?
The Nothings,
Haven’t happened yet, musings?
I Mourn losing loving,
Crescendo voice in the morning,
No, not the opera singer,
The baby crying,
The mist falling,
On leaves whilst,
Harps are strumming,
Silently, but strumming.
You know they’re making music,
Like the rhythm of life forms crawling.
What a silly thing,
To think that mourning,
Is only for dead things,
For gone things,
For liver stings,
For broken wings,
No, any moment without all these things,
Is a moment for mourning.
If you don’t feel this mourning,
You’re not an earthling,
You’re a deathling,
And for you,
I have no mourning,
No wailing.