Grief as an interlude.
The in-between performance.
Where shoeless days, wandering forests—
meet
black-dressed, paired farewells.
Where velvet curtains close and draw,
a symphony has long prepared
(for you).
Percussion slices into silence.
Clarinets hum in minor tune.
The bass joins in—they’ve been appointed.
Welcome to Grief’s Interlude.
The music plays now just for you.
Regret takes center stage.
What wasn’t said.
“What could I do?”
The music begins to fade.
I guess it’s time we see the view
from our heart’s balcony.
Crossing legs and leaning in—
anticipating more…
A special place for all our kin
is bursting from our core.
Cymbals reach the back of room.
The flutes play loud and low.
The composer pulls a handkerchief—
tears and sweat compel this show.
You feel so sorry.
You feel alive.
You feel memories—sharp and sore.
They’re taking bows.
The act has closed.
Another’s passing through death’s door.
Welcome to Grief’s Interlude.
Grief doesn’t arrive as a finale—it slips in between the acts.
This poem imagines loss as a performance