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