Once the tears have been cried, are they worth more than a pail of salty Atlantic water?

Grief is not pain, but torment;
   torment we crave when we know our beloved have died.

And who knows grief?
A people without a home?
A child without a mother?

A mother without a child?

It comes in the night, like a thief,
   but unlike a thief, it does not abscond before the day breaks.

Does grief have a name?
Sorrow?
Regret?
Death?
Empathy?

Or are these grief's friends?

The souls that know will not tell,
   and those that don't know won't either,
   even when they finally find out.

And they will.

If my sins returned as monsters
   if each lie awoke a ghoul
   there would be no hiding place
   nor shelter for my soul.

For my wrongs are many
   and forgiveness has been spent
   what with all the ills I've wrought
   'twould be inane to try repent.

The careless sounds slipped from my tripping lips
   the thoughtless flapping of my tongue
   those simple phrases cost me dearly
   on my shirtsleeves they've been hung.

Looking back at past events
   I find it quite absurd
   that God dost grant us no device
   to unspeak a wicked word.

On the paper lies my blood
   my pencil is a vein
   take them from me and you've locked me up
   and I'm left with just my brain.

If my heart's removed from what I say
   I know I must refrain
   from spouting worthless, empty words
   I beg you,

Let creativity remain.

His teeth are crooked, bent and brown
   he grins with mirth, eyes pointing down
   his hollow head contains a thought
   friendly, yes but pleasant, not.

His whims, in fact, are quite alarming
   for what's on his mind is harming.

He wants to steal and take what's mine!

Alas! Why must Death be charming?

The withering of leaves complete
   the grass withdrawn
      the plants to peat
         all waste away
            and the fauna
               for famished scrawn
                 flee the North
                    for wind that bites
                        the powdered ice
                           the Winter Dawn.

The hardy sparrow
   fast forsakes
      that gaudy vest
          which Summer makes
             he scurries home
                to cozy fir
                   and shies from flight
                      'til Spring awakes.