Mourning is ever new and fresh,
each time someone lost like it is the first time,
its sharpness never dulls
as it cuts though all defenses,
there is sorrow, anger and deep rage,
all pious clichés wasted,
though faith and hope remain.
We are so civilized in our mourning,
no tearing of our robes,
or ashes in our hair,
No….
It is all muffled and quiet,
and many are left alone,
isolated in their pain,
for the awfulness of emptiness,
the deep hole that was once full
of a life, a light,
now gone,
though again
hope remains
amidst the inner chaos,
where only silence is the true consolation.
Is it a fools dream,
this hope,
I think not,
it is life after all,
this shit we all go through,
necessary perhaps,
this chipping away
of facades that cover
an ocean of sorrow.
Is it thus for everyone?
Yes I would say,
though those lucky few,
who are more aware,
they drink the chalice straight away,
the rest like me,
well we struggle along,
slowly coming alive
by life’s cruel jest.
