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
Grief is not a path. It is a spell.
