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Mar 2019
It’s funny,
I’ve tread the boards before .
Yet somehow,
The stages feel very different.

The funny thing about grief
Is the brittle nature
Of the acts you battle through,
Back and forth,
Round and round.

Denial is my personal favourite
Because for that time,
Nothing is real.
Within the eye of the storm
You feel almost safe somehow,
And yet,
Before long
Anger bubbles.

Effervescent rage takes over,
And screaming, shouting, swearing at the world
Is the only course of recompense.
For everything is wrong,
Everything is pain,
And it sears white hot
Through all doubt.
But
It only lasts for so long,
So you beg,

You bargain for some peace;
Some change of circumstance,
Some hope.
Anything you have to offer,
Everything in fact.
For you are tired,
So very tired,
And the unfairness of it all
Weighs heavy on your heart.

So heavy depression creeps in
And as you lie awake at night,
The black dog crushing your chest,
You question everything.
How you could ever hope
To pull through this cloud?
You question,
If you could ever see the sun again?

They are painful
Whirling round and round
Flipping back and forth
Replaying the scenes
Painful and necessary
For the grief appears
For many reasons

And a knife in the back;
The heartache that follows,
Is kin to this storm.
I know there is one more act to play
But I haven’t learnt my lines
I’m not ready for opening night

I have no acceptance yet.
T J Green
Written by
T J Green  32/F
(32/F)   
132
 
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