Grief is the thing with feathers.
The thing in the rafters, dancing,
Just beyond my fingertips.
Grief is the thing in my bed.
The thing with strong arms
That refuse to hold me.
Grief is the thing with fur.
The thing winding itself about my legs,
Tripping me as I walk.
Grief is the thing in yellow.
The thing that's shining, mockingly,
Without keeping me warm.
Grief is the thing in the mirror.
The thing that looks like me,
But moves without me, still.
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 12:25 AM UTC
Grief is the thing with feathers.
The thing in the rafters, dancing,
Just beyond my fingertips.
Grief is the thing in my bed.
The thing with strong arms
That refuse to hold me.
Grief is the thing with fur.
The thing winding itself about my legs,
Tripping me as I walk.
Grief is the thing in yellow.
The thing that's shining, mockingly,
Without keeping me warm.
Grief is the thing in the mirror.
The thing that looks like me,
But moves without me, still.
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