Loss so fresh, like a spear,
it's tip hitting its mark again and again.
The sharp metal cold against the heart,
loss strikes, and always strikes again.

Its sharp bite is known,
known too well.
The poison that follows an unwelcome shadow,
feeding on memories, gorging on despair.

It seemingly stays forever,
never leaves.
Rarely is it defeated, so it would have you believe,
the immortal enemy.

Memories fuel its hunger,
but also your truth.
They are your weapon, your shield, your faith,
the immortal enemy is conquerable.

You make it so.