Grief is a town
full of dirt streets,
always muddy,
rutted deep
by those
passing
through.

We look for
the bypass,
the way around,
only to realize, too late,
boots already
******* more muck
with each step
that this village is one
that all roads,
eventually,
lead to.

And that mud clings,
washings and rain
only drive the dirt
deeper,
staying on us long
after we pass
through.

Only time can dry
this all-covering filth,
make it crack
and flake off,
leaving clear the trail
of sorrows we've
trod;
and us,
splattered and stained
with memory.