There is a desolation to grief
Hidden, buried
Rotting and writhing in the depth of the soul
And no one can see the blackened heart
Aching and curing in tears of salt

There is a wrenching to pain
Gripping, seeping
The infection and corruption of touch
Like everything could crumple
And everyone can break

There is a madness to comfort
Clinging, blinding
Feeling closer to light, to wind
Crawling up a staircase
Of bodies you’ve dragged in pursuit

There’s a silence to acceptance
Waking up from a puddle of blood and spit
Finding the faces that mouthed your name
Moths, circling the lightbulb
In your own rusted cage