this grief of love is quiet...
it does not hit me in the face
to face the ground with a rumbling gasp
it comes tenderly
through the gentle weave of my days
sowing the cold nights in a blanket that holds me tightly
bubbling in the kettle of my heart
percolating through the pores of every shadow that I cannot touch
behind the whispering breeze and gentle sun ray
it pours its burning liquid
sweetly
into every sensation
until
in the start of a passing day
my quiet tears bleed
I stand there
stark
with only one question...
"Why?"
and with every utterance
in this hollow expanse of skull
resounds again
my mo(u)rning heart
Nov 2, 2019
Nov 2, 2019 at 12:50 PM UTC
this grief of love is quiet...
it does not hit me in the face
to face the ground with a rumbling gasp
it comes tenderly
through the gentle weave of my days
sowing the cold nights in a blanket that holds me tightly
bubbling in the kettle of my heart
percolating through the pores of every shadow that I cannot touch
behind the whispering breeze and gentle sun ray
it pours its burning liquid
sweetly
into every sensation
until
in the start of a passing day
my quiet tears bleed
I stand there
stark
with only one question...
"Why?"
and with every utterance
in this hollow expanse of skull
resounds again
my mo(u)rning heart
Request permission to use this poem