~

her smile...
’tis the thinnest veil
o'er a razor's edge,
it can ne’er conceal
her bleeding heart;
for it is not
in well lit fables,
in clichéd phrases
or muttered answers trite,
that the flame
of life burns best,
but in the gritty spaces,
between the rocks
and hardened places,
in bruising shades
of blacks and blues,
when it's tongue
of fire
shines brightest;
it is here
the pinpoint light
points deftly to
reveal its sight,
the truth it bares
to spite the stares
from dusk to dawn
slowly, surely,
ever so
devours the night.

~

post script.

*grief, like a wound that needs the air to breathe, the light to heal, if allowed to run a course of its own accord is indeed a gift, it will right the soul; but when it is not permitted, when it is relegated to only the space and time that others choose for their own comfort, it becomes a festering sore, a cancerous mess, eventually an ugly sight.  it is with great sadness that i say, our culture does little to help the grieving, asking these to suffer in silence, to hide in the shadows.  i am still learning to weep... to grieve well.  and, i have faith... knowing that one day mourning will turn to dancing!