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.