Hypothesis of Grief
All day out of sorts with self I fluttered like a leaf
Upon a monstrous limb of grief
There was nothing in psychology or even belief
I found to bring my soul relief
All day with smoke filled eyes I prismed light
But could not see beyond my tears
The invisible spectra of silent irresistible night.
A tree can take so much in its years:
The wind that shakes the soul is strong
That manhood cries, and cries so long.
I do not understand this thing at all, despite that I
Had worn myself with observations
That spans the larval fly to lakes of empereal sky
I had used words for consolations
Before, but not for me, the wrap around the heart
The soluble bandages of simple pain
For all its power comets still shred and fall apart
The beauty of the thing is truly vain.
And words likewise might store the years
But now means nothing to the salty tears.
No idle grief today I feel, no idle reason set me
Now, to drip and thaw in this gale
While root and soil upheave in caprice's glee
That this brittle life with life impale.
I have lost nor skin, nor gold, and yet the deluge
Without my flesh holds me enmesh
For mortality besieged, reduced, has no refuge
Where a storm stalked tree may thresh
I must believe in words from which I hide
There is a purpose for each tear I cried.
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