If I say sorry—
Would you listen?
If I called again,
Would you pick up?

If I changed,
If I bent,
Would you let me back in?

I’d trade my silence,
Swap my pride—
Just to stand
Where I used to be.

If I gave you all my days,
All my nights,
Would you come back?
Would you fight?

I’ll undo every word,
Every moment missed,
If you promise—
Promise me this:

Don’t let the silence
Grow too loud.
Don’t let me fall
Out of your crowd.

I’m here, still standing—
Waiting to see
If there’s room left
For two... or three... of us.

Grief is a cyclic spell.
It loops.
It spares none.
It's inevitable.
This poem follows through each stage of grief like a spell—
Untamed.
Unbound.

— The First Stage —

Burdens are discreet, like shadows they creep,
Disguised as excuses, seeping in deep, shaking core beliefs.
Should I care about them? I don't feel the need.
I am not in the deep!

I am so close to the...
To the conclusion!
To the retribution!

Indeed.
I know what I'm talking about.
For I'm not weak.
I do not bleed.

— The Second Stage —

Reenacting noir violence as something prophetic,
Proportional to the lethargy and lapse in memory.

Craving the caves as they
cave in melancholy.
Framing the phrase as they
phase in verbally.
Adding the daze as they
laze in physically.
Blaming the place but they
can't pace gently.
Desperate to bridge the gap so they
race profusely.

Virtuous? Why should I care about them?
I don't feel the need!
They never did care for me anyway—
even when I was drowning in deep!!

But now when I am so close to the...
To the destruction!
To the retribution!
They care? *****!

Indeed.
I know what they're talkin' about.
I am not weak.
And I refuse to bleed.

— The Third Stage —

Knowing the taste of fear they
made a note mentally.
Faster they ran to master it tactfully.
Dreaming how good it will feel if it ends silently.
Beaming with delusion they fell prey to cult activity.
Worshiping day and night, swallowed by ritualistic vanity.

Failure in results added fuel to the aggressive analogy.
Looking for meaning brewed life into inhumanity.
Myth or not, this bizarre journey
will lead to a dark ending.

But who's sane enough to reject the voluntary heretic ascendency?
Forget transparency—lowered guards breed corruptancy.

If I shall care enough, will I be granted a reprieve?
I can no longer swim this deep.

Almost there...
For the happiness.
For the redemption.
Away from the slip.

Tell me I'm not too late.
Tell me I'm doing great.
Tell me I'll be okay.
Tell me I won't bleed.

— The Fourth Stage —

Defence is irrelevant when you're deemed unworthy;
Among these foolish creatures none have a slither of sanctity.
Only the demonic hymn echoes through the monastery.

Surviving Curates pray for mercy.
The massive inflow of broken kin brings tears in the building.
The priest stays silent though, which enrages the victims.
They heckle at him and start grumbling.

Seeing the teary-eyed priest, they realise their wrongdoings.
Helpless and bound, the victims cry out for safety.

Whatever should I ever care for,
for nothing holds a meaning.

Am I drowning?
Am I swimming?
I'm lost in the deep.

So close to the...
To the silence.
The oblivion of reckoning.

Wish I was strong enough to change a thing.
But I was weak from the beginning.
Thus, I bleed.

— The Fifth Stage —

Eerily, the bewitching entity distorts it with ranting—
The entity, namely self-pity, flourishing,
Birthed by burdens, fed by the masses' frolicking tendencies.
Exuberates an overwhelming aura, seemingly understanding.

Careful—this is the seed of self-loathing.

"Verily, must it be prompting?
Must it be coaxed with hoaxes, propelling redundancy?"

You think no one resisted this hypnotic screeching?
In this abominable world brave warriors took a standing.

Vexed and perplexed, anxiety stacked,
emotional wrecks, Reaper's back,
falsehood's flag, regrets that drag,
weaker to help.

Yes, I care.
Care, because I know what it brings.
Care, for we all swam through the deep.
Care, for I am so close...
To the end and the beginning.
Care, for now I know the meaning.
Care, for I know what I have become.

Neither weak
Nor strong.

Care, because I must bleed.

For—
Burdens are discreet, like shadows they creep...

                                                                                             -Asher Graves

Denial
The news breaks
The words come,
but they slide off my skin
like rain on a window.
I keep moving,
setting the table, watering the plants,
as if the world hasn’t fractured
in a way I can’t unsee.

Anger
The air feels sharp,
each breath jagged,
and I want to break something.
The cups in the cupboard tremble,
my fingers curl into fists.
Why this?
Why now?
Why me?

Bargaining
In the quiet, I begin to bargain,
with gods I don’t believe in,
with time that won’t listen.
If I had been better,
smarter, kinder,
maybe it wouldn’t have ended like this.
The universe stays silent

Depression
It swallows me whole,
a deep ocean without light.
I stop reaching for the shore.
The bed becomes my sanctuary,
though it offers no peace.
I float,
adrift,
nothing to anchor me.

Acceptance
There’s no epiphany,
no sudden light breaking through clouds.
Just a morning
where I rise
and the weight feels less like a boulder
and more like a stone
I can carry in my pocket.
It’s no permanent solution
But it’s just enough to last me the day.

Death is inevitable and unforgiving.
Emotions just as unforgiving and unrelenting.
Regret and pain swell up,
A lump in your throat,
Swallowed to form the pit in your stomach.
Nights extend and days shorten with every passing thought.
If time had a hand, surely you'd hold it.
Pulling them back, begging-
pleading not to move forward.
Yet instead you're dragged along, Death only in the distance.

Sometimes I still wake up at night.
To my mid-day terrors.
And my room always feels empty.
My eyes fall off back into time.

I'd always hear you say
That we'd be better off
But who are you to say so
When you're not here anymore.

And I wake up in the after glow
Of the sun from my midnight terrors
This place is just too much for me.
I'd rather not stop to look and see.

And I remember that you'd always say
Nothing would last that long
But how could you tell me that
When you've been gone for far too long.

When I dive back to the sea of dreams
I close my eyes and can't help but think
You were right all along
But I can't tell you that anymore.

And yet as I drift off into the evening sky
Your voice is still as clear as it was that time.
And I wish that I could have this back
Your kind words and the hope you'd bring.

And all the parts I lost that you took from me.

-Persephone

First the diagnosis
Then the prognosis
Indeed it is cirrhosis

Alongside the cancer
Is the answer
They will no longer be a dancer

First comes shock
At no longer being a chip off the old block
Wanting to throw a rock

It just can’t be they are too young
Why has it spread to the lung
Will these be the last words rung

I want to ring its neck
But we need all hands on deck
So emotions are kept in check

Then sadness comes along
Oh this is so wrong
They want us to be strong

All leading to depression
And many a session
Even a confession

Can’t they be given another chance
Couldn’t there be a different circumstance
But in the end we all end up at acceptance

The five stages of grief
In a brief
Poem is my belief

Andreas Simic ©

Thank the Gods you didn't come back from the dead to haunt me again today

I may have actually believed you
I may have actually taken your word again
I may have taken you back and done more damage to myself than there already is

I hope you stay dead
But when a ghost is in love with you, well
Sometimes they just come back for you
Singing love songs and whispering sweet nothings on the wind

It's terrifying, really